LATTER-DAY   POEMS 


LATTER-DAY  POEMS 


BY 
WILLIAM    COWIE 


w 

?«> 

,»£ 


SYRACUSE    NEW  YORK 

WOLCOTT'S    BOOKSHOP 

1904 


COPYRIGHT,  1901 
BY    WILLIAM    C  o  w  i  K 


PREFACE 

1  KNOW  that  some  of  these  poems,  in  slip  or  man 
uscript  form,  have  given  pleasure  to  some  people, 
and  it  is  in  the  hope  that  they  will  give  pleasure  to 
more  that  I  venture  to  put  this  book  before  the 
public.  Some  of  them — "  Where  the  Rest  have 
Gone,"  "  Going  to  Church"  and  "  Consistent 
Dying,"  for  instance — will  probably  not  give  pleas 
ure  but  the  reverse  of  it  to  the  strictly  orthodox  in 
religious  matters ;  to  these  good  and  respected  peo 
ple  I  say  that  it  was  never  in  my  mind  wantonly  or 
unnecessarily  to  attack  or  belittle  the  faith  of  any 
one,  but  only  to  express  honestly  my  own  views.  I 
have  a  very  sincere  respect  for  a  sincere  believer,  no 
matter  what  may  be  my  opinion  of  the  belief  itself ; 
nor  do  I  forget  that  that  opinion  of  mine  may  be 
of  very  small  consequence.  If  it  be  thought  that  I 
have  sometimes  aimed  at  individuals,  I  answer  that 
it  was  never  the  individual  but  rather  the  type  I  had 
in  mind.  Possibly  some  of  the  pieces  might  pru- 


Preface 

dently  have  been  excluded  on  the  score  of  too  much 
"  subjectivity,"  but  I  have  often  observed  that 
verses  of  which  I  thought  highly  were  the  least 
liked  by  other  people,  and  v ice  versa,  so  I  put  them 
all  in  and  let  them  speak  for  themselves.  I  hope 
that  one  or  two  of  them  will  carry  their  own  sug 
gestion  that  they  are  not  to  be  taken  in  the  most 

deadly  seriousness. 

W.  C. 

SYRACUSE,  March,  1904. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

"BLESSINGS  BE  WITH  THEM  AND  ETERNAL  PBAISE" 11 

THE  LITTLE  GREAT 13 

TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 16 

THE   BOYS  18 

WHERE  THE  REST  HAVE  GONE    22 

HALF-PAST  FOUR  IN  THE  MORNING   25 

AFTER  WE'RE  UNDER  THE  GROUND 28 

TRUTH    31 

SO-AND-SO    36 

TURNED  DOWN  42 

CONSISTENT  DYING   47 

GOING  TO  CHURCH    51 

MARCH  OF  MAN  59 

MILLIONAIRE  VULGARIS  ;   OR,  CHURCH  AND  MAMMON  ....  69 

INTROSPECTION    92 

VETERAN'S  FUNERAL 95 

NEW  YEAR'S  WAIL  OF  A  BENEDICT  99 

7 


Contents 

PAUK 

DEDICATED  TO  "  THE  GANG"  121 

THE  MERCHANT  CENSUS   125 

LOST    131 

Dr.   PROFUNDIS    134 

AD  MUSAM    137 

A  NEW  MAUD  MULLER   141 

LONGING  FOR  SUMMER  146 

WIND  is  GIVEN  TO  BLOWING 150 

STONY   ISLAND    153 

To  C.  H.  M.  AT  STONY  ISLAND 157 

FISHING   JOYS    159 

To  G.  S.  L.  AT  NAHRAGANSETT  PIER   167 

THE  Bio  BLACK  DOG  172 

THAT  SUNDAY  MORNING  MACKEREL   176 

ON  A  LATELY  DECEASED  MILLIONAIRE    181 

To  JOHN  L.   KING    186 

THE  TURNING-DOWN  OF  SMITHIZ   188 

ON  SEEING  A  PORTRAIT  191 

ALCOHOL  AND  NICOTINE 193 

SHIPWRECKED  MOTHER 202 

THE  LITTLE  PENNY  207 

-PRIVATE   DRAWER  212 

8 


Contents 


PAGE 

MARY 213 

LOVE'S  EXTRAVAGANCE    215 

BOB  o'  LINCOLN 217 

QUEEN    ANN    219 

LORD  THORWALD    221 

TRANSLATIONS 

THE  BROOKLET 236 

THE  SILESIAN  WEAVERS 237 

FREDERICK  HEBEI/S  "  LAST  PRAYER"  239 

BABYLONIAN   SORROWS    241 

WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 243 

DEH  ABGEKUHLTE 244 

MARY  STUART'S  FAREWELL 246 

LA  BONNE  VIEILLE 249 


BLESSINGS    BE    WITH    THEM   AND 
ETERNAL    PRAISE" 

WHEN  to  my  room  I  come  at  night 
Then  is  my  heart  filled  with  delight ; 
The  day's  long  labors  then  are  o'er 
And  left  behind,  they  vex  no  more. 

There  on  my  desk  Friends  wait  for  me 
Whose  very  names  I  joy  to  see, 
The  Books  o'er  which  I  love  to  bend; 
By  bards  and  "  mighty  poets"  penned. 

Let  others  choose  the  ling'ring  tale, 
The  last  new  novel,  weak  and  stale, 
Or  hang  entranced  on  wounds  and  wars ; — 
Give  me  the  songs  caught  from  the  stars ! 

No  jingling  rhymer  shall  intrude 

Upon  my  eager  solitude; 

But  let  their  strains  be  echoing 

Whom  Nature's  self  taught  how  to  sing ! 
11 


'  Blessings  be  with  Them" 

To  those  who  love  the  Sons  of  Song 
No  other  books  can  please  them  long ; 
The  mind  'tis  easy  to  control ; 
The  Poets  only  swell  the  soul ! 

Accept  my  thanks,  immortal  few ! 
Who  peace  and  hope  and  comfort  too 
To  me  in  many  a  weary  hour 
Have  brought  with  such  refreshing  power. 

Ye  Voices  of  the  Universe, 
My  teachers  and  my  ministers ! 
Who  lift  me  from  my  earthy  cares 
Aloft  to  clearest  heavenly  airs: 

Take  me  a  moment  by  the  hand 

And  let  me  reverently  stand ; 

I  may  not  wear  the  diadem, 

But  let  me  touch  your  garments'  hem. 

Illumed  by  your  celestial  rays, 

Read  in  my  streaming  eyes  your  praise ; 

And  in  my  falt'ring  accents  rude 

Eternal  love  and  gratitude ! 
19 


THE    LITTLE    GREAT 

I  SAW  him  stalk  across  the  floor, 

The  pride-puffed  man,  the  little  great ; 

Mayor  was  he  or  Senator, 

Some  "  leader"  of  his  town  or  state. 

His  followers  shout,  the  trumpets  sound, 
He  strikes  his  head  against  the  sky, 

He  glances  haughtily  around 

And  thinks :   Oh,  what  a  man  am  I ! 

I  hear  him  spout,  dispute,  predict, 
And  strut  in  eloquent  debate; 

Far  be  't  from  me  to  contradict: 

Who  cares  what  says  the  little  great? 

His  threats  are  naught ;   and  known  to  me 

His  blandishments  and  cunning  ways, 
And  when  his  tongue  with  praise  is  free 

I'd  rather  have  his  blame  than  praise. 
13 


The  Little  Great 

Though  with  the  rest  I  watch  the  show 

I  hold  myself  in  due  control; 
I  cannot  honor  him :   I  know 

His  emptiness  in  heart  and  soul. 

No  thought  has  he  for  others'  weal; 

He  strives  for  place  and  power  and  pelf, 
But  with  no  kind  or  generous  zeal ; 

His  labors  all  are  for  himself. 

Oh,  for  a  man  that  round  him  folds 
The  banner  of  the  just  and  true, 

Prizes  the  people's  place  he  holds 
But  for  the  good  that  he  may  do ! 

Yet  he  through  life  content  will  go, 
No  flaw  suspect,  no  fault  confess; 

How  should  he,  since  he  ne'er  will  know 
His  own  exceeding  littleness? 

For  me,  I  marvel  at  the  plan 

That  seems  to  rule  the  partial  skies, 
And  gives  to  such  a  pigmy  man 

Such  large  opinion  of  his  size ! 
14 


The  Little  Great 

But  this  I  know :   the  Gods  shall  yet 
Their  own  eternal  law  fulfill, 

And  greatness  only  shall  be  great 
And  littleness  be  little  still ! 

No  envy  shall  I  hold  for  him ; 

I  know  it  comes,  his  certain  fate; 
Oblivion  soon  shall  o'er  him  swim, 

The  doom  of  all  the  little  great ! 


15 


TURN    OF    THE    YEAR 

IN  the  dark  of  the  winter  night 
Lay  the  Northern  lands  a-cold; 

But  lo !   ere  the  dawn's  drear  light 
A  secret  to  them  was  told. 

Far  in  the  South,  where  he  ranged 
O'er  palm-tree  and  coral  main, 

The  Sun  in  his  motion  had  changed 
And  turned  to  the  North  again ! 

Frozen  and  chill  was  the  heart 

Of  the  woods,  in  their  snows  asleep; 

But  they  woke  with  a  sudden  start 
As  He  paused  in  his  mighty  sweep. 

And  from  hemlock  tall  and  from  pine 
The  white  flakes  shower'd  like  rain, 
As  they  stirred  at  the  secret  sign, 

And  knew  he  was  coming  again ! 
16 


Turn  of  the  Year 

And  the  breast  of  the  snow-heaped  North 
With  a  nameless  ecstasy  thrilled, 

As  she  trembled  the  tidings  forth 
To  forest  and  river  and  field. 

"  He  is  coming  again !"  breathed  the  woods, 
The  hills  and  the  shivering  plain, 

"  At  last !"  sobbed  the  ice-bound  floods, 
"  He  is  coming  to  us  again !" 

The  wolf  in  his  dark  den  housed, 
And  the  birds  by  the  lonely  grange, 

Dumb  through  the  long  night  drowsed, 
Nor  guessed  at  the  mighty  change ; 

But  the  lakes  and  the  oceans  knew, 
And  the  lands  of  the  Northern  zone, 

Though  faintly  they  fell  as  the  dew, 
The  far-off  feet  of  their  own ! 

Through  their  deeps  it  floated  and  rang 

The  rapturous  wild  refrain ; 
"  He  is  coming  again !"  they  sang, 

"  Our  King,  He  is  coming  again !" 
3  17 


THE    BOYS 

"O!   Ye  douce  folk  that  live  by  rule. 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool !" — BfRNs. 

ALL  men  have  their  ways  of  enjoyment; 

Some  costly  pleasures  buy, 
And  some  are  for  joys  that  are  simple, 

And  one  of  these  am  I : 
For  to  me  still  the  chief  of  my  comforts 

And  the  solace  that  never  cloys 
Is  to  hie  me  away  of  an  evening 

To  meet  down-town  with  The  Boys. 

There  are  those,  I  know,  that  reprove  it, 

That  solemnly  shake  the  head 
And  believe  there's  a  mighty  virtue 

In  an  early  going  to  bed ; 
Small  drop  of  hot  human  kindness 

Their  chilly  blood  alloys; 
Oh !  I  pity  the  man  so  careful 

That  he  can't  sit  down  with  The  Boys ! 

There  are  things  some  men  count  sinful, 

Upon  which  the  rigid  frown, 
18 


The  Boys 

That  show  not  so  on  The  Journal 
Where  everything's  set  down ; 

The  Almighty  Judge  that's  above  us 
No  vengeful  pen  employs ; 

And  I'm  sure  the  Recording  Angel 
Has  a  special  page  for  The  Boys. 

It  is  well  there's  a  Court  up  yonder 

Looking  down  with  a  wider  ken ; 
It  is  well  that  the  final  verdict 

Will  not  be  pronounced  by  men ; 
And  if  at  the  last  I  am  fated 

To  the  sentence  that  destroys, 
'Twill  not  be  because  I  loved  so 

Those  evenings  with  The  Boys. 

So  the  wise  men,  the  moralizers, 

May  frown  upon  my  ways, 
And  for  all  my  comings  and  goings 

Have  never  a  word  of  praise ; 
They  may  reprobate  and  rebuke  me, 

But  I  will  not  heed  their  voice ; 
They  know  not  whereof  they  are  talking 

They  never  met  The  Boys ! 
19 


The  Boys 

Chagrins  I  have  known  and  failures, 

Of  crosses  I've  had  my  fill; 
But  I've  kept  a  clean  conscience  always, 

Meddling  not  with  the  things  that  kill ; 
An  honest  heart  and  a  kind  one, 

That  is  what  above  all  I  prize, 
And  I  find  them  around  me  in  plenty 

When  I  meet  down-town  with  The  Boys. 

I  am  growing  old ;  well  I  know  it ! 

And  The  Boys  grow  older,  too ; 
Year  by  year  the  chinks  are  widening 

And  a  clearer  light  steals  through 
From  the  Other  Land,  giving  warning, 

To  my  thinking  a  pause  and  a  poise, 
And  gilding  for  me  with  a  glory 

The  grizzling  heads  of  The  Boys. 

I  know  not  what  is  before  me ; 

I'll  take  my  chance  with  the  rest; 
My  lot  will  be  hard,  I  fear  me, 

If  I'm  judged  by  what  I've  professed ; 
90 


The  Boys 

That  is,  if  the  Church  is  the  only 
True  judge  of  the  heavenly  joys, 

For  I  doubt  if  it  thinks  there's  salvation 
In  a  night  down-town  with  The  Boys ! 

But  wherever  they  go,  God  bless  them ! 

When  with  Earth  they've  gotten  through, 
Be't  to  regions  of  light  or  of  darkness 

I  want  to  go  there  too; 
For  still  to  be  with  them  and  of  them 

Shall  be  chief  of  my  cherished  joys, 
No  better  fate  I  long  for 

Than  to  keep  with  the  dear  Old  Boys. 

Were  the  gates  all  jewelled  and  golden 

And  the  streets  of  the  shining  pearl, 
And  everywhere  spread  around  me 

Of  splendor  a  perfect  whirl; 
Even  there  I  could  never  be  happy 

Nor  with  full  free  heart  rejoice 
If  I  couldn't  in  some  quiet  corner 

Sit  down  as  of  yore  with  THE  BOYS  ! 


21 


WHERE    THE    REST    HAVE    GONE 

OUT  upon  Time's  unquiet  sea 

We  float  from  the  mists  of  Eternity, 

Above  us  Earth's  sun  and  her  flying  rain, 

As  we  drift  to  the  clouds  and  the  mists  again ; 

Behind  us,  before  us,  is  silence  profound, 

And  whence  we  are  come  or  whither  we're  bound 

We  never  shall  know  till  with  Life  we  are  done, 

And  then  we  shall  go  where  the  rest  have  gone. 

From  the  deeps  we  came,  to  the  deeps  we  go, 
The  waters  that  bear  us  ne'er  backward  flow, 
All  flesh  before  us  this  voyage  hath  made 
As  we  now  make  it,  then  be  not  afraid ! 
Where  the  clouds  enfold  it  in  darkness  and  gloom, 
As  our  fathers  came,  to  the  verge  we  shall  come, 
A  moment  we'll  linger,  then  one  by  one, 
Over  we'll  go  as  the  rest  have  gone. 

And  daily,  hourly,  I  miss  from  its  place 

Beside  me,  some  loved,  some  familiar  face ; 

22 


Where  the  Rest  have  Gone 

Or  was  it  a  countenance  I  loved  not, 
Gone  from  its  long  accustomed  spot? 
They  fall  from  my  sight  and  away  they  go 
Down  to  the  whirling  torrent  below ; 
To  the  brink  it  swings  them,  and  one  by  one 
Over  they  go  as  the  rest  have  gone ! 

And  I,  too,  see,  as  my  oars  I  ply, 

Nearer  the  foam  of  the  rapids  fly ; 

The  shores  flit  faster,  I  feel  as  they  glide 

The  stronger  pull  of  the  hastening  tide ; 

And  some  day  soon,  though  I  falter  and  shrink, 

I  shall  find  myself  on  that  awful  brink, 

'Twill  be  my  turn  then !  I'll  be  the  one, 

And  over  I'll  go  as  the  rest  have  gone ! 

Over  I'll  go,  and  those  cloudy  deeps, 
Whose  secret  alone  the  Eternal  keeps, 
What  are  they  holding  in  store  for  me, 
Those  fathomless  wastes  of  eternity? 
Shall  I  wholly  pass  in  that  dim  abyss 
And  fade  away  into  nothingness, 
Or,  living  and  conscious,  shall  I  go  on? 

—I  know  not :   I'll  do  as  the  rest  have  done. 

23 


Where  the  Rest  have  Gone 

I  shall  go  like  a  king,  with  a  fearless  heart, 

No  craven  terrors  shall  make  me  start, 

No  priest,  no  parson,  shall  buoy  me  up, 

I  shall  drink  to  the  dregs  the  appointed  cup ; 

No  creed  of  a  little  Earth  holds  me ; 

From  uttermost  Space,  from  Eternity 

I  came ;  when  with  Time  and  with  Earth  I  am  done 

I  shall  go,  as  I  must,  where  the  rest  have  gone ! 


HALF-PAST    FOUR    IN    THE    MORNING 

SOME  people  can  sleep  the  whole  night  through, 

And  with  no  tumbling  or  turning, 
And  some  sleep  best  when  the  night  is  new, 

And  some  sleep  best  in  the  morning. 

And  for  some ; — I  trust  their  number  is  few ! 

The  hours  go  a-bugling  and  horning; 
They  can  neither  sleep  when  the  night  is  new, 

Nor  yet  can  they  sleep  in  the  morning. 

For  me,  my  early  rest  is  the  best ; 

If  I  wish  to  slumber  fairly, 
Would  I  make  old  Somnus  a  lingering  guest, 

I  must  turn  into  bed  right  early. 

No  matter  when  to  my  couch  I  take, 

Or  where  I  may  be  so j  ourning ; 
My  slumbers  break,  and  I'm  wide  awake 

At  half -past  four  in  the  morning. 

25 


Half -past  Four  in  the  Morning 

Oh,  a  dreary  hour  is  that  half-past  four 

To  the  mortal  that  sleepless  tosses ; 
When  it  opens  your  eyes,  how  it  opens  the  door 

To  all  your  troubles  and  crosses ! 

In  the  light  of  day  you  can  drive  them  away, 

Their  worriment  easily  scorning; 
But  oh,  what  a  sway  and  a  power  have  they 

At  half-past  four  in  the  morning ! 

If  you're  down  on  your  luck  and  the  world's  unkind 
And  your  outlook  is  none  too  cheering ; 

If  it's  in  your  mind  that  you're  falling  behind, 
And  the  favoring  gales  are  veering. 

If  your  hopes  are  low  and  your  courage  too, 
And  the  quilt  of  your  life  needs  darning, 

With  the  needle  lost ;   how  I  pit}'  you 
At  half-past  four  in  the  morning! 

And  oh  !  if  some  foolish  things  you've  done ; 

Are  there  spots  that  you'd  wish  brighter; 
If  your  conscience  sometimes  weighs  a  ton, 

And  won't  grow  an  ounce  the  lighter; — 
26 


Half-past  Four  in  the  Morning 

From  her  pricks  by  day  you  may  not  be  free, 
But  I'll  give  you  an  ample  warning 

That  old  R.  E.  full-sized  you'll  see 
At  half -past  four  in  the  morning ! 

If  your  blood  runs  cold,  and  you're  growing  old, 
And  you  like  a  slipper  that's  roomy ; 

If  you  fear  your  story  is  almost  told, 
With  the  latest  chapters  gloomy; 

Old  Granny  Care  with  her  tangled  hair, 

And  her  cold  eye  on  you  turning, 
'Tis  she  will  preside  at  your  bedside, 

At  half -past  four  in  the  morning! 

Ye  Powers  that  favors  on  men  bestow 
Hear  ye  my  prayer  and  be  gracious ; 

I  ask  not  much ;   let  your  bounty  flow, 
And  my  hopes  not  prove  fallacious. 

I  shall  not  ask  you  my  coffers  to  heap 
With  gold  till  they're  overturning; 

I'll  only  ask  you  to  let  me  sleep 

After  half-past  four  in  the  morning ! 

27 


AFTER  WE'RE  UNDER  THE  GROUND 

LIFE,  with  its  joys  and  its  raptures, 

Troubles  and  trials  and  cares; 
Life,  with  its  wreaths  and  its  roses, 

Nettles  and  thistles  and  tares ; 
Are  we  among  the  defeated, 

Are  we  with  victory  crowned : — 
What  does  it  all  amount  to 

After  we're  under  the  ground ! 

Toiling  for  fame  or  for  riches, 

Will-o'-the-wisps  leading  on, 
Gaining  the  spot  where  the  gleam  was, 

Only  to  find  it  is  gone ; 
Racing  and  wrestling  and  jostling, 

Hardly  we  dare  to  look  round ; — 
What  does  it  all  amount  to 

After  we're  under  the  ground  ! 
28 


After  We're  under  the  Ground 

Breathing  the  name  of  the  loved  one, 

Swooning  in  bliss  or  despair ; 
Never  was  mistress  like  this  one, 

Never  a  woman  so  fair! 
Faint  with  delight  hath  she  favored, 

Hopeless  if  but  she  hath  frowned : — 
What  does  it  all  amount  to 

After  we're  under  the  ground ! 

Caught  in  the  crush  and  the  turmoil, 

Tossed  on  the  tide's  ebb  and  flow, 
Heedless  of  all  that's  above  us, 

Reckless  of  all  that's  below ; 
Make  we  the  beach  treasure-laden, 

Wash  we  ashore  with  the  drowned; 
What  does  it  all  amount  to 

After  we're  under  the  ground ! 

Riches,  we  can't  take  them  with  us, 
Fame,  what  is  that  to  the  grave? 
Where  are  the  years  that  we  squandered, 

Where  is  the  life  that  we  gave? 
29 


Wasted  and  lost  in  pursuing 
Blindly  the  bliss  never  found? 

What  does  it  all  amount  to 
After  we're  under  the  ground ! 

Oh !  could  the  dead  for  a  moment 

Wake  from  their  slumbers  and  think, 
Strange  would  their  doings  appear  then 

This  side  eternity's  brink ! 
"  Surely  it  was  a  mistaken 

Road  over  which  we  were  bound ;" — 
So  would  they  say  could  they  reason 

After  they're  under  the  ground! 

So  would  they  say  ere,  bewildered, 
Weary  from  drowsings  so  deep, 

Groping  about  them  for  clearness, 
Sank  they  again  into  sleep ; 

Asking,  the  while  they  composed  them 
Anew  to  that  slumber  profound; 

What  did  it  all  amount  to, 

Now  that  we're  under  the  ground ! 
30 


TRUTH 

I  SAW  their  names  in  the  papers, 

The  list  of  the  millionaires, 
The  men  who  gathered  the  wheat  in 

While  I  was  gathering  tares. 

And  it  made  me  spleenish  and  spiteful, 
To  think  I  was  left  in  the  ditch ; — 

But  I  asked:   Whence  came  their  millions, 
How  did  they  get  so  rich? 

And  I  answered,  myself,  the  question, 
As  I  mused  in  my  dingy  den ; 

For  I  had  known  them  from  childhood, 
Most  of  those  wealthy  men. 

And  this  is  the  way  I  answered ; — 
And  I  would  no  man  defame ; — 
They  had  mostly  got  it  by  thieving, 

Though  under  another  name. 
31 


Truth 

Not  with  pistol  or  bludgeon, 

Not  with  violent  hands 
Had  they  filled  those  opulent  purses, 

Swoll'n  to  bursting  their  bands. 

Though  I  sometimes  think  the  pistol 
And  the  "  stand  and  deliver"  of  old 

Were  good  as  the  ways  men  now  have 
Too  often,  of  getting  gold. 

Whereof  a  perfect  description 
May  in  few  short  words  be  pent, 

And  'tis — whate'er  you  may  call  them- 
Duping  the  innocent! 

And  again  I  lifted  the  paper, 

The  list  once  more  to  scan, 
And  I  said :  Not  one  of  you  all,  sirs, 

Has  the  soul  of  an  honest  man ! 

And  I  looked  at  my  worn-out  carpet, 
Scarce  hiding  the  creaky  floor, 

And  said :   I'll  none  of  your  millions ; 
No !  I  would  rather  be  poor ! 
39 


Truth 

When,  lo,  a  footfall,  a  rustling ! — 
With  a  gesture  sudden,  uncouth, 

I  turned ;  and  standing  beside  me 
Was  the  calm-faced  Goddess  Truth! 

In  the  dim  light  standing  beside  me, 
For  my  lamp  was  burning  low; 

But  in  her  eyes,  gazing  on  me, 
A  wondrous  light  did  glow. 

"  You  would  rather  be  poor" — I  heard  you- 

Her  coldness  was  complete, 
But  her  voice  was  perfect  music, 

So  clear  and  silvery-sweet. 

"  And  I  read  your  thoughts  of  the  rich  men, 
Whose  names  are  there  on  the  page, 

And  I  know  you  envied  their  riches, 
And  swelled  with  a  jealous  rage. 

"  You  grudged  e'en  the  vilest  among  them 

And  wished  it  were  yours,  his  store, 
And  it  made  me  smile  when  I  heard  you 

Say  you  would  rather  be  poor. 
3  33 


Truth 

"  And  I  came  to  tell  you ;" — her  voice  now 
Grew  stronger,  and  heaved  her  breast, 

"  This  many  a  day  I've  watched  you 
And  you're  only  a  rogue  like  the  rest ! 

"  Only  a  rascal,  believe  me, 

A  ship  with  a  rotten  keel, 
And  the  thing  that  mostly  grieves  you 

Is :   you  didn't  know  how  to  steal ! 

"  'Twas  not  that  your  conscience  kept  you 
From  meddling  with  ill-got  gains, 

'Twas  not  you  were  noble-minded, 
'Twas  only  you  didn't  have  brains ! 

"  And  now  in  your  life's  bare  winter 

It  is  only  this  you  do : 
Grumble  at  those  who  were  bolder 

And  skillf uler  thieves  than  you ! 

"  You  praise  yourself  that  you're  honest, 

Cry  down  the  millionaire  brood ; 
But  I,  Truth,  know  you'd  have  stolen 

Like  them  if  you  only  could ! 
34 


Truth 

"  And  before  I  go  I  would  tell  you ; — 
And  think  of  it  where  you  sit — 

That  an  unsuccessful  rascal 
Is  always  a  hypocrite  !" 

Then  somehow,  before  I  knew  it, 
From  my  room  she  vanished  quite 

And  there  I  sat,  all  lonely, 
In  the  dim  uncertain  light, 

But  my  mind  still  held  the  picture 
Of  that  form  of  fadeless  youth, 

I  mused  on  all  she  had  told  me 
And  I  knew  her  name  was  Truth ! 


SO-AND-SO 

I  WAS  over  at  Bigtown  the  other  day, 

It  was  on  a  cold,  rainy  Sunday ; 
There  was  nothing  to  do  and  nothing  to  play, 

So  to  help  kill  time  until  Monday 

I  got  me  a  seat  in  the  old  brown  church, 
Said  I :   I'll  for  once  hear  a  sermon ; 

(I  think,  if  my  mem'ry's  not  in  the  lurch, 
The  name  of  the  preacher  was  Sherman). 

His  "  people"  thought  he  had  preached  right 
well, 

At  least  so  I  heard  them  mention ; 
But  what  his  theme  was  I  couldn't  tell, 

I  hadn't  paid  much  attention. 

For  I  noticed,  just  as  the  sermon  began, 

While  looking  quietly  round  me, 
In  a  pew  quite  near  me,  a  certain  man 

Whose  presence  there  did  astound  me. 
36 


So-and-So 

For  long  ere  to  Bigtown  he  went  I  knew 
That  man  and  his  odorous  story, 

And  strange  it  seemed  that  I  now  should  view 
Him  there  in  the  House  of  Glory. 

How  comes  it,  I  said,  as  I  bent  to  the  ear 
Of  one  who  was  sitting  beside  me, 

That  So-and-so  is  at  worship  here, 
With  a  reason,  I  pray,  provide  me. 

No  word  he  answered,  but  service  o'er, 
My  question  he  straight  remembers, 

And  he  proudly  said,  as  we  reached  the  door, 
"  Why,  he's  one  of  our  leading  members  ! 

"  No  Sunday  comes  but  he's  in  his  seat, 
Though  the  cold  might  make  you  shiver, 

And  when  we've  debts  and  expenses  to  meet 
He's  our  most  generous  giver. 

"  He  helps  us  out  with  a  lib'ral  hand, 

And  we're  proud  of  and  thankful  to  him, 

And  glad  he's  got  millions  at  command, 
So  his  giving  won't  undo  him. 
37 


So-and-So 

"  Did  you  see,  as  he  left  the  church  to-day, 
How  our  people  thronged  about  him? 

Oh !   we  love  him  dearly ;    I'd  almost  say 
We  couldn't  get  on  without  him." 

As  I  walked  away  from  the  old  church  tow'rs 

I  ponder'd  sadly  a  minute : 
What  a  queer  old  place  is  this  world  of  ours, 

What  a  lot  of  humbug  in  it ! 

And  my  thoughts  ran  back  to  the  days  gone  by, 

When  So-and-so  was  suspected 
Of  filching  his  millions ;   Ah,  then,  said  I, 

He  wasn't  so  much  respected ! 

Then,  people  thought  he  should  go  to  jail — 
'Tis  the  plain  truth  I'm  describing — 

But  the  righteous  cause  will  sometimes  fail ; 
I  remember  the  whispers  of  bribing. 

Oh !  where  would  he  be  now,  So-and-so, 

Had  justice  been  done,  I  wonder? 
I  can't  just  tell — not  list'ning,  I  know, 

To  the  brown  church  organ's  thunder ! 
38 


So-and-So 

But  maybe,  I  thought,  they've  never  learned 

The  tale  of  his  old-time  dealings, 
Nor  know  that  the  ears  of  men  once  burned 

With  the  history  of  his  stealings? 

Would  they,  if  they  knew  that  story  of  old, 

So  easy  be  in  their  suff 'ranee  ? 
I  almost  answer'd :   He's  got  the  gold, 

It  wouldn't  make  any  difference ! 

But  let  them  go,  lest  I  judge  amiss 
Those  churchmen,  clerks  and  civilians ; 

The  thing  that  impressed  me  most  was  this : 
That  So-and-so  stuck  to  his  millions. 

In  his  gray  old  age,  coming  nigh  to  the  porch 

Of  eternity,  soon  to  sunder 
From  earth,  he  has  joined  the  old  brown  church, 

But  he  still  sticks  fast  to  his  plunder. 

Oh !  a  pillar  now  in  the  House  of  Prayer 

Is  he  and  he  praises  the  sermon, 
And  oft  at  his  table  and  proud  to  be  there 

Is  the  good  old  Dominie  Sherman. 
39 


So-and-So 

When  money  is  wanted  his  name  on  the  roll 
Is  first,  but  he  makes  no  blunder, 

He  gives  but  a  cent  where  a  dollar  he  stole 
And  he  firmly  clings  to  his  plunder. 

Oh  So-and-so,  there's  a  God  above 
In  whom  ev'ry  true  man's  trust  is; 

We've  long  been  told  he's  a  God  of  Love — 
But  he's  also  a  God  of  Justice ! 

He's  a  God  of  sunshine  and  love  and  peace 
But  he  rules  the  storm  and  the  thunder, 

And  be  you  sure  no  rogue  he'll  release 
Till  the  rogue  releases  the  plunder. 

You  sit  each  week  in  that  high-backed  pew 
Till  your  own  back  aches  and  twitches ; 

But,  trust  me,  God  has  no  use  for  you 
While  you  stick  to  your  stolen  riches ! 

Oh  So-and-so,  men  say  you've  thriven, 

Forgive  if  I  rudely  awake  you ; 
Is  there  any  church,  think  you,  that  to  heaven 

With  the  spoils  in  your  hand  can  take  you? 
40 


So-and-So 

You  may  think  you're  safe  if  in  church  you  pray 
And  pardons  receive  and  anointments ; 

But  there's  going  to  be  on  that  Final  Day 
Some  terrible  disappointments ! 

You'll  find,  I  fear,  when  you  seek  to  come 
To  the  land  of  the  milk  and  the  honey, 

Saint  Peter  will  halt  you  and  strike  you  dumb 
With :  You  didn't  give  back  the  money ! 

He'll  tell  you  these  gates  are  open  wide 
And  have  been  from  days  primeval 

To  evil  doers  who've  truly  tried 
To  undo  their  deeds  of  evil : — 

But  he'll  tell  you  also,  and  in  a  tone 
That  will  sound  to  you  like  thunder, 

The  stairs  that  lead  to  the  Great  White  Throne 
Won't  carry  a  thief — and  his  plunder ! 


TURNED    DOWN 

I  WAS  a  candidate  for  office  once, 
I  thought  mine  was  of  all  the  likeliest  chance, 
The  hour  propitious  and  the  circumstance : — 
They  turned  me  down ! 

I  thought  I  was  the  leading  candidate, 
And  that  my  name  was  surely  on  the  slate, 
And  in  fond  expectation  did  I  wait; — 
They  turned  me  down ! 

Though  to  the  Party  I  was  always  true, 
Alike  at  Austerlitz  and  Waterloo, 
Though  new  defeats  did  but  my  zeal  renew, 
They  turned  me  down ! 

Was  it  because  I  daringly  had  thought 
The  Captains  didn't  captain  as  they  ought, 
And  sometimes  my  opinions  got  afloat, 

They  turned  me  down? 
42 


Turned  Down 

Did  they  suspect  that  I  suspected  them 

Of  blund'ring  leadership,  and  did  condemn 

In   words   too   plain   the   things   that   stirred   my 

phlegm 
So  turned  me  down? 


Because  I  restless  grew  at  times  and  cross, 
Not  wholly  deferential  to  the  Boss, 
Was  this  the  cause  that  brought  about  my  loss 
And  turned  me  down? 


In  politics,  as  in  the  ranks  of  war, 
Whate'er  you  think,  keep  on  your  lips  a  bar, 
Else  slim  the  chance  for  you  of  stripe  or  star ; 
They'll  turn  you  down ! 


Did  they  in  heaving  me  thus  o'er  the  brink, 

Of  Party  or  of  Public  interests  think, 

Or  with  their  own  advantage  did  they  link 

My  turning  down? 

43 


Turned  Down 

I  cannot  tell ;  and,  meantime,  let  me  stem 
The  bitterness  that  would  their  course  condemn ; 
No  doubt  the  wherefores  were  enough  for  them 
That  turned  me  down. 

For  all  I  know  their  reasoning  was  true, 
For  all  I  know  they  gave  me  justice  due, 
Maybe  good  judgment  raised  the  wind  that  blew 
My  card-house  down? 

And  maybe,  too;   for  I  can  only  guess, 
'Twas  meaner  motives  that  did  them  possess, 
And  of  my  aspirations  made  a  mess, 
And  turned  me  down. 

Maybe  they  found  one  in  the  suppliant  crowd 
Who  more  to  them  than  to  the  Party  bowed, 
And  with  their  largess  quickly  him  endowed, 
Nor  turned  him  down. 

Some  one  that  wholly  would  on  them  depend, 
And  at  their  nod  forsake  his  dearest  friend, 
And  caper  as  they  whistled,  to  the  end, 

If  not  turned  down. 
44 


Turned  Down 

'Tis  little  hills  surround  the  shallow  glen, 
The  little  boss  likes  best  the  little  men, 
Big  sheep  are  restless  in  the  little  pen, 
They  break  it  down ! 

Why  did  they  push  my  proffer'd  plate  aside, 
And  leave  it  all  with  victuals  unsupplied  ? 
I  cannot  tell ;  I  know  they  did  decide 
To  turn  me  down. 

I  only  know  they  laid  me  on  the  shelf ; 
Gone  were  my  dreams  of  coming  place  and  pelf ; 
And  what  I  thought  I'd  best  keep  to  myself ; — 
They  turned  me  down ! 

And  be  it  so !  with  stomach  staunch  and  stout 
I'll  take  the  potion  as  they've  dealt  it  out, 
And  keep  the  Faith  although  the  groundlings  flout 
At  me  turned  down. 

Like  to  the  vagrant  winds  that  round  us  blow 
The  Bosses,  big  and  little,  come  and  go ; 
Maybe  of  them  I'll  see  the  overthrow, 

That  turned  me  down. 
45 


Turned  Down 

And  if  I  don't,  I'll  keep  my  thoughts  serene, 
My  mind  still  open,  and  my  conscience  clean, 
Well-pleased  ere  long,  who  knows  ?  that  I  have  been 
Turned  coldly  down ! 

The  blissful  hours  the  calm-browed  thinker  shares 
When  his  ripe  Autumn  her  rich  fruitage  bears 
Go  not  with  office  and  its  paltry  cares ; — 
Then  turn  me  down ! 

With  eyes  sure-fixed  on  some  diviner  goal 
Let  me  in  quietness  my  days  control ; 
Let  me  not  brush  the  bloom  from  off  my  soul, 
But  turn  me  down ! 

Yes !   when  in  soberness  my  heart  I  sound 
I  find  no  soreness  there,  no  rankling  wound, 
And  I  am  glad  the  Bosses  on  me  frowned, 
And  turned  me  down  ! 


CONSISTENT    DYING 

HE  lay  in  silence  on  his  bed, 

They  told  him  he  was  dying ; 
"  I've  known  it  all  the  time,"  he  said, 

"  But  what's  the  use  of  crying? 
"  My  years  are  ripe,  I'm  all  unsound, 
"  'Twere  best  that  I  were  underground." 

Then  spake  an  anxious  Christian  friend : 
"  Now  that  the  end  is  near  you, 

"  Shall  I  not  for  the  parson  send 
"  To  comfort  and  to  cheer  you?" — 

"  Send  for  no  parson,  friend,  for  me ; 

"  I'll  die  as  I  have  lived,"  said  he. 

"  In  health  and  strength  not  much  I  prayed, 
"  Small  use  had  I  for  churches, 

"  Now  at  the  last  it  sha'n't  be  said 
"  That  I  essayed  to  purchase 

"  With  selfish  winnings,  all  too  late, 

"  A  passport  for  the  Golden  Gate. 

47 


Consistent  Dying 

"  As  backward  o'er  my  life  I  look 

"  I  wish  I  had  done  better, 
"  But  now  the  record's  in  the  book 

"  Down  to  the  smallest  letter ; 
"  For  better  or  for  worse  'tis  writ 
"  And  I  must  take  the  judgment  fit. 

"  I  held  myself  of  false  and  sham 

"  On  earth  a  good  diviner, 
"  And  of  one  thing  I  certain  am, 

"  That  God  must  scorn  a  whiner ; 
"  The  door  is  closed,  the  key  is  turned, 
"  And  I  shall  get  the  wages  earned. 

"  And  what  those  wages  are  to  be 

"  No  parson  can  disclose  to  me, 

"  He  cannot,  if  he  ban  or  bless, 

"  One  penny  make  them  more  or  less ; 

"  The  Power  that  regulates  that  fee 

"  In  its  own  way  will  deal  with  me. 

"  I  have  no  claim  to  high  rewards, 

"  And  yet  this  thought  some  cheer  affords : 
48 


Consistent  Dying 

"  I've  done  no  wrong  to  any  man, 
"  To  live  and  let  live  was  my  plan, 
"  And  I  am  sure  no  Deity 
"  Has  any  wrong  in  store  for  me. 

"  I  ne'er  believed  in  hell,  but,  friend, 

"  If  wrong  in  that  opinion 
"  I've  nothing  done  that  God  should  send 

"  Me  to  that  foul  dominion ; 
"  And  heaven  would  scarcely  suit  with  me 
"  If  it's  what  parsons  say  'twill  be. 

"  If  there's  a  life  beyond  the  grave 

"  I'll  find  it  in  my  station ; 
"  For  more  than  that  I  do  not  crave, 

"  Nor  ask  for  exaltation ; 
"  The  nobly  pure,  the  truly  great, 
"  Not  yet  for  these  were  I  a  mate. 

"  And  for  the  worthless  and  the  vile, 
"  I've  scorned  them  still  while  living, 

"  For  rogue  and  knave  I  had  no  smile, 
"  And  I  have  no  misgiving 
49 


Consistent  Dying 

"  That  after  death,  if  I  live  on, 

"  My  lot  will  e'er  with  such  be  thrown. 

"  And  if  the  grave's  to  be  the  end, 
"  No  life  beyond  the  present, 

"  Old  Mother  Earth  has  been  my  friend, 
"  My  time  on  her's  been  pleasant ; 

"  Content,  I'll  seek  in  her  soft  breast 

"  Her  crowning  gift,  the  perfect  rest. 

"  In  humbleness  I  leave  it  all 
"  Unto  the  Great  Designer ; 

"  No  tears  have  I,  no  coward  call, 
"  I'll  be  no  deathbed  whiner ; — 

"  Send  for  no  parson,  friend,  for  me, 

"  I'll  die  as  I  have  lived,"  said  he ! 


50 


GOING    TO    CHURCH 

"  WHY  don't  you  go  to  church?"  friends  often  ask, 
And  think  because  I  don't  I'm  in  bad  ways ; 

And  sometimes  one  will  undertake  the  task 

To    bring    me    there,    and    will    not    heed    my 

"  Nays !" 

"  Come  hear  our  minister,  he  talks  right  well ; 

He'll  put  some  new  ideas  in  your  head ; 
You  think  you  know  it  all,  but  he  can  tell 

You  things  you  never  thought  of;    come  ahead. 

"  'Twon't  do  you  any  harm,  and  maybe  good ; 

You'll  feel  the  better  for  't ;  try  once  and  see ; 
I'd  be  so  pleased  to  have  you  say  you  would ; 

Come  up  next  Sunday,  take  a  seat  with  me." 

When  careless  worldlings  talk  to  me  like  this 

I  long  to  give  my  thronging  thoughts  full  vent ; 
But  yet  I  speak  not ;   'twould  be  ta'en  amiss, 

They  make  me  angry  with  their  self-content. 
51 


Going  to  Church 

Church-going  is  with  them  a  thing  of  form, 
A  question  oft  of  sunshine  or  of  rain ; 

And  if  by  chancing  of  some  petty  storm 

They're  kept  at  home,  they  almost  count  it  gain. 

Nor  feel  they  There  the  Holy  Place's  power ; 

Lightly  they  come,  as  lightly  they  depart, 
And  when  they've  passed  the  doors,  within  the  hour 

Their  thoughts  are  busy  with  the  shop  and  mart. 

Far  be't  from  me  that  sacred  path  to  scorn 
O'er  which  so  many  weary  feet  have  trod 

To  find  for  breaking  hearts  and  bosoms  torn 
Solace  and  comfort  in  the  House  of  God ! 

To  you  who  carry  thither  minds  devout, 

Pure  hearts  sustained  by  Faith  in  virtue's  ways ; 

Oh,  souls  sincere,  to  you  my  heart  goes  out 
In  honor,  love,  respect,  prof  oundest  praise ! 

Oh,  ye  who  that  Tabernacle  fare 

With  joy  exceeding  and  with  gratitude, 
To  whom  the  feeblest  word  that's  uttered  there 

Drops  as  the  manna  on  a  heart  renewed, 
59 


Going  to  Church 

I  envy  your  unquestioning  belief, 

The  peace  that  comes  to  you  through  praise  and 

prayer ; 
Oh,  that  I  were  like  you,  and  that  my  chief 

Of  joys  could  be  like  yours,  to  worship  there ! 


But  if  I  go  to  church,  shall  I  approve 

Teachings  which  in  my  heart  I  can't  believe, 

The  worn-out  dogma  in  the  worn-out  groove 
And  spoken  words  that  only  make  me  grieve? 


My  own  poor  little  creed,  how  small  a  thing ! 

I  have  no  pride  of  intellect ;  I  see 
Too  well  my  weakness ;  yet  to  it  I  cling ; 

Honestly  held  it  is  enough  for  me. 


To  the  great  Power  that  spanned  yon  arching  sky, 

My  vows  of  utter  truth  let  me  renew ; 
What  in  my  soul  I  feel  to  be  a  lie, 

I  will  not  say  that  I  believe  it  true ! 
53 


Going  to  Church 

Christian  or  not !  what  signifies  a  name  ? 

Doubts  have  I  had  even  since  my  earliest  youth ; 
Not  at  my  bidding  came  they ;   do  not  blame 

If  I  refuse  to  palter  with  the  Truth ! 

They  tell  in  church  God  sent  his  innocent  son 
To  make  upon  the  cross  the  sacrifice 

Of  his  own  life,  that  guilty  men  might  run 
From  hell  to  mansions  in  his  Father's  skies. 

And  how  in  Adam's  sin  all  mankind  fell, 

And  hopeless  dwelt,  beyond  Salvation's  pale 

Until  the  Saviour  came ; — no  more  I'll  tell ; 
I  have  no  patience  with  the  childish  tale ! 

And  on  that  sweet  and  radiant  Human  life 
The  church  has  reared  a  superstructure  vast 

Of  fables  with  all  sober  sense  at  strife ; 

Which  men  might  credit  in  the  unripened  past 

But  not  to-day !   not  in  these  latter  years, 

When  Reason's  light  divides  the  false  and  true ; 
Man  shall  no  more  be  slave  unto  his  fears ; 

Give  him  the  Truth ;   and  nothing  else  will  do ! 
54 


Going  to  Church 

Give  him,  oh  churches !  his  birthright  again ; 

Lay  not  upon  him  your  restraining  rod ; 
You'd  have  him  honest  in  the  things  of  men ; 

Let  him  be  honest  in  the  things  of  God ! 

Oh !  let  man's  reason  be  at  last  set  free ; 

Fables  impossible  lay  on  the  shelf; 
I  want  nor  man  nor  God  to  die  for  me ; 

If  guilty,  let  me  pay  the  debt  myself ! 

Nay,  let  me  pay  it?    Yea,  indeed  I  shall; 

If  I  have  sinned  against  His  laws,  I  know 
I  and  no  other  one  shall  hear  the  call 

To  punishment,  and  I  shall  have  to  go. 

Now  let  those  tales  wherewith  the  ignorant  pen 
In  credulous  times  that  lofty  life  entressed 

No  longer  vex  the  ears  of  thinking  men ; — 
Immaculate  Conceptions  and  the  rest! 

Strip  such  poor  hind'rance  from  that  high  career, 

Whirl  it  away  with  a  most  winnowing  fan ; 
Christ's  glory  and  his  greatness  best  appear 

To  those  who  hold  him  for  a  fellow-Man. 
55 


Going  to  Church 

The  Son  of  God !   prize  that  not  over  much 
We  all  are  sons  of  God ;   the  eye  is  dim 

That  counts  not  on  the  earth  a  thousand  such, 
Noble  and  pure,  the  only  Seraphim ! 


Then  let  us  only  to  that  Spirit  bow 

Who  built  the  one  true  church,  the  universe, 

And  gave  us  seas  and  continents  below, 
And  suns  and  stars  above  for  ministers. 


And  higher  far  than  mightiest  stars  that  swim 
In  boundless  space,  each  in  His  sure  control, 

Who  gave  us  that  which  makes  us  kin  to  Him, 
This  mortal  man's  immortal  human  soul. 


Man  needs  not  faith  in  dogmas  or  in  creeds, 

A  child  no  longer  is  he,  nor  a  clod ; 
Light  from  on  high  illumes  him ;   he  but  needs 

Faith  in  himself  and  faith  and  trust  in  God. 
56 


Going  to  Church 

For  me ;  my  church  shall  not  be  made  of  stone, 
Or  built  on   earth;     from   farthest  space  shall 
stream 

Its  light  on  me;   in  quietness,  alone, 
I'll  bow  before  that  "  visionary  gleam." 


Unvexed  by  mediator  or  by  Priest, 

Whose  dronings  oft  my  strong  upliftings  freeze ; 
Oh,  thou  that  carest  even  for  the  least 

Of  men,  I  better  know  my  wants  than  these ! 


I  would  not  go  to  church  but  once  a  week 

Nor  wait  till  Sabbath  bells  ring  out  their  chime, 

Spirit  Supreme !  thee  rather  would  I  seek 
And  hold  communion  with  thee  all  the  time ! 


Let  me  be  guided  by  Thy  will  revealed 

Within  my  breast,  and  let  me  walk  with  Thee ; 

Then  if  my  wand'rings  chance  by  flood  or  field, 
Thou  too  art  there,  and  there  my  church  shall  be. 
57 


Going  to  Church 

Put  Thou  thy  hand  upon  my  brow :  Thy  laws 
Give  me  to  understand  and  make  my  care : — 

I  shall  not  need  to  "  go  to  church,"  because 
My  church  shall  be,  as  Thou  art,  everywhere ! 


MARCH    OF    MAN 

"When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 

Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping, 
That  I'm  no  more?" 

— MOTHERWELL. 

WHEN  I  beneath  the  appointed  earth  am  laid, 

"  Life's  fever  o'er," 
May  there  be  no  lament  or  moaning  made, 

That  I'm  no  more. 


When,  like  a  pebble  dropped  in  ocean's  deep 

From  life  I  fall, 
Why  should  I  ask  that  there  be  one  to  weep 

A  loss  so  small? 


I  shall  have  had  my  time ;   the  little  day 

To  me  allowed, 
Or  late  or  early  shall  have  rolled  away, 

And  brought  the  cloud. 
59 


March  of  Man 

With  no  reluctance  let  me  bow  my  head 

To  them  that  come 
With  bounding  steps  and  brows  begarlanded, 

To  their  new  home. 

I  know  that  after  I  am  laid  aside 

In  breathless  rest, 
Th'  unfailing  sun  shall  wait  at  morning  tide 

For  east  and  west. 

And  rains  shall  fall,  buds  swell  and  blossoms  blow 

In  spring's  sweet  time, 
And  all  the  punctual  seasons  come  and  go 

From  clime  to  clime. 

And  birds  shall  warble  as  the  day  departs 

Where  lovers  meet 
And  radiant  youth  and  maid,  with  straining  hearts, 

Shall  find  life  sweet ! 

Oh,  happy  lovers !   vain  to  fear  that  ye 

Should  earth  misprize 
Who  find  in  bow'ry  walk  and  trysting  tree 

God's  paradise ! 
60 


March  of  Man 

Yea !  youth  and  beauty  shall  go  hand  in  hand 

With  hearts  of  gold 
And  love  wave  over  them  his  rainbow  wand 

As  from  of  old. 

And  vigorous  men  by  natural  force  shall  climb 

To  high  commands ; 
And  all  the  mighty  business  of  the  time 

Be  in  their  hands. 

With  eager  feet  they'll  race  for  fortune's  spoils, 

Nor  shall  they  fail, 
Nor  find  in  life  and  her  sufficing  toils 

Aught  to  bewail. 

For  them  shall  swiftly  speed  the  busy  hour 

On  all  their  ways; 
Earth  and  her  tasks  for  every  active  power 

Shall  fill  their  days. 

While  weaker  hearts  shall  suffer  sore  defeat 

Through  all  the  years; 
Their  meagre  bread  in  sorrow  shall  they  eat 

And  bitter  tears. 
61 


March  of  Man 

Yet  finding,  haply,  in  the  fiery  rain 

Of  their  distress 
Sweet  recompenses,  of  a  nobler  strain 

Than  coarse  success. 

And  some  by  paths  forbidden  shall  not  pass, 

But  enter  there, 
The  ways  that  end  but  in  the  black  morass 

And  withering  air. 

I  see  the  old  men  find  th'  accustomed  spot 

At  eventide, 
By  the  young  sons  of  strength  regarded  not 

And  pushed  aside. 

Like  weary  sailors,  worn  with  voyaging, 

This  cove  they  seek; 
And  while  to  life's  last  shore  they  feebly  cling, 

I  hear  them  speak. 

The  tales  so  often  told  they'll  tell  again, 

With  garrulous  tongue; 
And  how  all  mankind  honest  was  and  plain, 

When  they  were  young. 
62 


March  of  Man 

And  while  on  this  and  that  each  has  his  say, 

In  changeful  chat, 

They're  sure  the  world  grows  worse  from  day  to 
day, 

No  doubt  of  that! 


And  dolefully  they'll  wag  each  ancient  beard, 

And  heave  the  sigh, 
And  how  it's  coming  soon  what  long  they've  feared 

They'll  prophesy. 


Well-pleased  to  think  that  ere  that  chaos  comes, 

(So  will  they  say), 
Beyond  the  reach  of  its  alarming  drums 

They'll  be  away. 


So  have  the  fathers  talked  since  from  the  void 

Earth  reared  her  shelves, 
Forgetting  that  the  fallings-off  descried 

Were  in  themselves. 
63 


March  of  Man 

Oh,  hoary  men !    Earth  hath  no  place  for  you 

'Mid  them  that  throng 
Her  halls  and  find  her  beautiful  and  new ; 

The  young,  the  strong ! 

For  them  the  garland  from  her  secret  bower ; 

The  rarest  gem 
From  her  exhaustless  mines  is  in  their  power 

And  spoil  for  them. 

They  are  her  children,  and  her  love  they  share, 

Her  face  they  know ; 
Led  by  her  mother's  hand  through  regions  fair 

They  fearless  go. 

She  leads  them  long,  through  flow'ry  pastures  wide, 

At  length,  full-grown, 
Behold  !  no  more  they  find  her  at  their  side ; 

They  walk  alone. 

And  boldly  fare  they,  in  their  sturdy  prime 

And  far  they  go; 
But  though  the  path  not  changes,  in  due  time 

Their  steps  are  slow. 
64 


March  of  Man 

Nor  can  the  sunshine  longer  light  the  plain, 

Nor  birds  nor  flowers 
With  song  or  fragrance  wake  the  numbing  brain 

And  failing  powers. 

They  cannot  see,  although  it  is  not  night, 

Their  eyes  are  weak ; 
Grown  cold  and  dark  within,  for  warmth  and  light 

Without,  they  seek. 

They  beg  for  quickening  heat,  but  beg  in  vain, 

With  pleading  cries 
Nor  shall  that  vanished  vision  come  again 

To  those  dim  eyes. 

Their  day  is  done ;  the  gathering  darkness  falls 

Around  them  deep ; 
From  out  the  gloom  the  last  bell  faintly  calls ; 

And  let  them  sleep  ! 

For  me,  if  left  till  mortal  vision  blear 

In  age's  night, 
Oh !   may  the  inward  eye  dwell  with  me  clear 

And  see  aright ! 
5  65 


March  of  Man 

Let  me  still  forward  look,  with  heart  elate 

To  those  far  years 
That  shall  bring  man  to  his  sure-destined  fate 

Though  oft  through  tears. 

And  they  that  follow  here.    Oh !  may  they  see 

The  pits  and  snares 
In  which  their  fathers  fell ;   may  they  be  free 

From  our  despairs ! 

Alas  !  they  too  shall  know  the  weary  hours ; 

To  them,  at  length 
Shall  come,  in  their  own  time,  the  less'ning  powers, 

And  flickering  strength. 

With  equal  fate  they  too  the  path  shall  try, 

Their  fathers  trod; — 
But  more  than  these  may  they  be  guided  by 

The  hand  of  God  ! 

And  may  the  generations  that  await 

The  distant  days 
Still  higher,  farther  go,  till  at  Heaven's  gate 

The  song  they  raise 
66 


March  of  Man 

Of  man  to  glory  brought  by  grace  of  God, 

And  that  strong  soul 
That  could  no  dwelling  find,  nor  sure  abode 

Save  that  high  goal. 

For  ever  upward  is  the  march  of  man ; 

The  road,  though  dim, 
Hath  one  sure  end  in  the  eternal  plan, 

And  leads  to  Him ! 

We  shall  not  see  that  far  but  certain  day, 

Yet  may  we  show 
Some  monuments  that  mark  an  upward  way ; 

Be  't  ours  to  go 

A  little  farther  than  our  fathers  went, 

That  those  to  come 
Our  prints  may  see,  and  rise,  ere  they  be  spent 

Still  nearer  home ! 

That  when  perfected  man  at  last  shall  reach 

Those  sacred  towers, 
He  may  survey,  with  grateful  heart  and  speech, 

These  years  of  ours, 
67 


March  of  Man 

And  say,  we  too  were  in  th'  ascendant  march 

By  which  he  came 
To  that  high  portal  and  celestial  arch, 

And  gates  of  flame. 

"  Lo !  these  were  links  in  this  refulgent  chain 

Now  fixed  above ; 
And  blessings  on  them  and  the  days  of  pain 

Through  which  they  strove 

"  To  bear  it  onward ;  let  the  hosts  of  Heaven 

Their  toils  applaud ; 
And  let  eternal  praise  to  them  be  given, 

True  sons  of  God  !" 

From  man  to  man  the  glory  comes  and  goes ; 

Each  following  race 
Beholds  with  clearer  eyes  the  light  that  shows 

His  resting-place ! 

The  House,  by  human  hands  all  undesigned ; 

There  shall  the  soul 
The  immortal  soul  of  man  her  dwelling  find, 

And  final  goal ! 
68 


MILLIONAIRE    VULGARIS;    OR,  CHURCH 
AND    MAMMON 

WHO  is't  that  rolls  along  the  street  in  equipage  so 

grand, 
With    coachman    struggling    hard    to    hold    the 

prancing  steeds  in  hand, 
And  liveried  footman  high  behind,  with  folded  arms 

across  ? — 
It   is  the   mighty   millionaire,   the  great  financial 

"  boss" ! 

The  monarch  of  the  modern  time,  the  magnate  of 

the  street, 
The  man  that  only  yesterday  a  fortune  made  in 

wheat, 
The   man    at   whose   controlling   word   obsequious 

brokers  fly, 
Who  sends  the  market  up  or  down; — 'tis  he  that's 

whirling  by. 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

The  people  stand  to  look  at  him,  they  watch  his 

wheels  retire, 
For  has  he  not  got  store  of  that  which  they,  too, 

most  desire? 
The  winner  in  the  game  wherein  their  chief est  joy 

they  find, 
Who  in  the  breathless  race  for  wealth  has  left  them 

all  behind. 


The  statesman,  though  with  record  long  of  service 

pure  and  wise, 
The  poet,  though  with  song  divine,  caught  from 

the  vaulted  skies, 
The  thinker,  trained  in  studious  hours  for  human 

weal  to  plan ; — 
What  were  they  to  that  staring  crowd,  compared 

with  that  rich  man? 


What  though  his  gains  were  foully  got  and  coarse 

his  nature  be, 
And  all  the  learning  that  he  knows,  the  rule  of  two 

and  three; 

70 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

What  though  his  tastes  be  vulgar  all  and  vulgar  be 

his  mates ; — 
He's  got  the  gold,  he's  got  the  key  that  opens  all 

the  gates! 


What  though  on  his  triumphant  path  his  ruin'd 

victims  lie, 
And   'gainst  his   scheming   knavery   the   Heavens 

indignant  cry, 
What  cares  he  for  the  bitter  word;    it  only  makes 

him  smile 
To  think  he  could  so  easily  so  many  men  beguile. 


Though  known  his  stained  character,  his  dark,  de 
ceitful  ways, 

Yet  eager  men  will  throng  to  him  as  moths  surround 
the  blaze, 

And  gracious  woman,  too,  will  come,  driv'n  by  the 
golden  wand, 

And  save  her  sweetest  smiles  for  him  and  take  his 

guilty  hand. 

71 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

He  goes  to  church  on  Sabbath  days ;  it  is  the  thing 

to  do, 
His    wife    and    daughters    with    him,    and    there's 

always  something  new 
In  their  attire  to  catch  the  eye,  some  rare  and  costly 

thing, 
And  when  they  lift  the  Holy  Book,  far  gleams  the 

blazing  ring. 


The  preacher  labors  at  his  task,  that  rustling  pew 

he  eyes, 

Not  to  displease  its  occupants,  alas  !  too  oft  he  tries, 
And  what  his  inmost  thought  should  be  he  keeps 

concealed  with  care, 
No  word  he'll  say  to  ruffle  them ;    there's  too  much 

money  there ! 


And  that  keen  man  of  millions,  the  Holy  Man  he 

hears, 
He  listens,  and  contemptuous,  but  to  himself,  he 

sneers, 

79 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

With  vision  trained  in  other  walks  he  sees  beyond 

the  rim 
And  shallow  service  of  the  lips  is  shallower  still  to 

him. 


Oh !  if  the  preacher  were  on  fire  and  spoke  in  words 

of  flame, 
If  from  his  lips  in  thunder  tones  the  stern  reproving 

came, 
His  careless  hearers  might  be  stirred  by  truth's 

resistless  power, 
And  e'en  the  scornful  millionaire  know  one  uneasy 

hour. 


But  how  shall  he  victorious  be  in  his  half-hearted 

war 
With  men  who  for  the  things  of  earth  in  deadly 

earnest  are, 
How  shall  he  stay  their  hot  pursuit  of  pleasure  and 

of  pelf 
Who,  while  he  talks  of  better  things,  not  better  is 

himself  ? 

73 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

He  pays  his  way,  the  wealthy  man,  and  liberally  he 

gives ; 
By  gift  of  him  and  such  as  him  the  priest  luxurious 

lives ; 
So  while  the  poor  are  fain  to  crowd  about  the  pulpit 

stair, 
The  front-pewed  member  of  the  church  is  still  the 

millionaire. 


No  matter  by  what  craft  or  guile  he  gained  his 

envied  hoard, 
'Tis  all  the  same  to  them  that  take  the  tithings  of 

the  Lord ; 
Alas !    that  e'er  Religion's  cause  should  thus  itself 

demean, 
Or  churches  take  the  gold  that's  brought  to  them 

by  hands  unclean. 


To  money  made  by  roguery  a  curse  forever  clings, 
It  blisters,  and  where'er  it  goes,  defilement  with  it 

brings, 

74 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

And  if  there  is  a  place  should  bar  the  offerings  of 

fraud, 
And  no  ill-gotten  gains  receive,  it  is  the  House  of 

God! 


Oh!  would  the  churches  be  the  strength,  the  help 
they  ought  to  be, 

Nor  break  the  friendly  hearts  that  weep  for  their 
decadency, 

Let  them  for  proved  integrity  their  high  com 
munion  save, 

Nor  walk  in  easy  fellowship  with  rascal  and  with 
knave ! 


The  vicars  of  the  Lord  to  be,  to  manifest  His  will,    . 

The  noble  and  the  pure  alone  should  that  high  office 
fill; 

The  holy  messages  of  Heaven  in  vain  to  man  he 
bears, 

Who  keeps  with  evil  company — and  be  they  mil 
lionaires  ! 

75 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Oh!    what  a  power  the  church  might  be  in  all  the 

walks  of  man, 
If  on  the  sinful,  still,  she  placed  her  adamantine 

ban; — 
"  Your  miry  ways  lead  not  to  me,  ye  must  be  cleaner 

shod, 
To  come  within  the  gates  that  guard  the  spotless 

House  of  God ! 


"  Though  worldly  men,  like  to  yourselves  pronounce 

your  name  with  praise, 
And  on  your  brows  the  vulgar  gems  of  earthly 

fortune  blaze ; — 
Yet  think  not  thus  to  come  to  me,  and  be  you  prince 

or  peer, 
Who  wear  the  jewel  Purity  alone  can  enter  here !" 


Unhappy  is  the  land  where  gold  is  all  that  men 

pursue, 
And  oh !    how  fall'n  is  the  church  when  it  grows 

worldly  too ; 

76 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

The  angels  of  the  living  God,  they  will  not  dwell 

with  sin, 
The    violated    courts    they    leave    when    Mammon 

enters  in. 

The  churches  of  these  latter  days  have  wander'd 

from  their  goal, 
The  mightiest  of  them  all  but  seeks  to  spread  her 

own  control; 
For  power  on  earth  her  sway  in  Heaven  to  barter 

is  the  plan, 
And  for  her  sake,  not  His,  to  stretch  her  empire 

over  man. 

"  Be  but  obedient  unto  me,"  she  says  with  unctuous 
voice, 

"  I  shall  not  interfere  too  much  with  your  terres 
trial  joys, 

Come  when  I  call,  give  what  I  ask,  still  strictly  heed 
my  word, 

And  I  will  see  you  justified  and  safe  before  the 

Lord !" 

77 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Alas !  the  yearning  human  soul  that  longs  to  leave 

the  mire, 
Whose  home  is  not  on  earth  nor  here  the  things  of 

her  desire, 
How  shall  she  rise  on  soaring  wing  to  that  diviner 

air, 
If  rituals  and  mummeries  are  all  her  meagre  fare? 


If  to  the  longing  heart  of  man  the  church  no  longer 

speaks 
In  tones  that  echo  clear  the  voice  which  so  to  list  he 

seeks, 
If  when  the  waves  of  doubt  and  fear  around  him 

surge  and  swim, 
She  cannot  reach  the  helping  hand — what  boots  the 

church  to  him  ? 


Oh !    when  the  trembling  soul  shall  come  to  that 

tribunal  high 
On  whom  shall  she  with  confidence  in  that  dread 

hour  rely? 

78 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Pure  must  they  be  that  go  with  her,  no  doubtful 

ways  have  trod ; 
Unstained  must  be  the  advocate  that  pleads  for  her 

with  God ! 


— But  hark!  the  organ's  music  now  through  nave 

and  chancel  soars, 
And   see   the   crowd,   with   eager   eyes,    beset   the 

guarded  doors ; — 
What  is't  that  all  that  curious  throng  to-day  hath 

hither  led? — 
The  daughter  of  the  millionaire,  to-day  she  is  to 

wed. 

At  last  the  proud  procession  comes,  the  rising  music 
rolls, 

And  see  upon  the  altar-steps  the  white-robed  priests 
in  shoals ; 

Why  are  they  garbed  so  gorgeously  and  why  so 
many  there? 

Go  ask  the  gaping  crowd  without,  go  ask  the  mil 
lionaire  ! 

79 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

The  means  by  which  his  gold  was  won  are  known 

unto  the  crowd, 
No    wonder    that    it    scornful    is    and    speaks    its 

thoughts  aloud ; 
But  here  and  there  a  soul  sincere  with  bitterness  is 

strained 
To  see  the  holy  offices  for  Mammon  thus  profaned. 


— And  when  he  dies; — Death  calls  for  him  as  for 

the  meanest  slave, 
Nor  yet  can  all  his  millions  buy  a  respite  from  the 

grave — 
Then   to    the   church   he   hopeful   turns,   by    her 

absolv'd  and  shriven, 
And  with  her  passport  in  his  hand,  how  shall  he  fail 

of  Heaven? 


And  then,  with  all  her  minist'ries  the  pliant  church 

comes  in, 
Commending  to  a  righteous  judge  the  soul  that 

dwelt  in  sin ; 

80 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

As  with  a  lawyer's  purchased  tongue  she  makes  her 

bootless  plea, 
And  for  the  service  done,  Alas !  she  takes  an  ample 

fee! 


But  vain  your  pleadings  after  death,  your  all-too- 
late  appeals, 

'Tis  on  the  record  made  in  life  the  Eternal  sets  his 
seals. 

And  would  ye  stead  the  trembling  soul  before  that 
awful  bar 

Oh !  help  it  while  there  yet  is  time,  before  it  gets 
so  far ! 

Oh!  churches  can  you  ask  that  men  your  hollow 
power  should  own, 

Who  see  you  thus  the  evil  deed,  the  life  corrupt 
condone  ? 

Go !  cover  your  vain  altars  up  and  bid  your  mock 
eries  cease, 

Ye  who  upon  the  golden  calf  bestow  the  Lamb's 

white  fleece ! 
6  81 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Oh !    fallen  from  that  high  estate  ye  held  when  ye 

were  true, 
When  grateful  hearts  were  dearest  gifts  by  mortals 

brought  to  you, 
Have  ye  forgotten  what  was  said  by  one  that  did 

not  lie — 
The  story  of  the  rich  man  and  the  slender  needle's 

eye? 

Those  eager  crowds  around  your  gates  what  shall 

they  think  of  you, 
Oh  church !  thus  dragged  at  Mammon's  wheels  and 

in  their  open  view, 
Shall  they  not  say  that  gold  is  king  in  castle,  church 

and  cot, 
Reflecting  bitterly  that  gold  is  all  they  have  not 

got? 

The  man  condemned  to  ceaseless  toil  through  all  his 
earthly  days, 

What  wonder  if  he  restless  grow  at  wealth's  con 
tinual  praise ; 

69 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

If    gold    alone's    worth    living    for,    what    lawless 

thoughts  and  grim, 
Must  oft  be  his  who  feels  that  gold  is  none  in  life 

for  him. 


If  man  must  set  this  drossy  King  upon  the  throne 
of  earth, 

Preferring  his  to  all  the  claims  of  character  and 
worth, 

Behooves  his  pamper 'd  favorites  to  watch  the  omi 
nous  vanes 

That  veer  above  the  mass  that  owns  no  share  in  his 
domains ! 


The  worship  of  false  deities  ne'er  ended  but  in  woe ; 
The  annals  of  the  olden  time  this  easy  truth  will 

show; 
The  annals  of  the  modern  time  will  but  the  tale 

repeat ; 
The  judgments  of  the  Lord  abide,  in  righteousness 

complete. 

83 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Oh!    nations  of  these  latter  days,  sunk  in  your 

gainful  toils, 
Bethink  you  where  you're  drifting  to  in  chase  of 

sordid  spoils ; 
It  ne'er  was  filled  at  living  springs  the  poisoned  cup 

ye  quaff, 
Know,  man  alone  is  king  of  earth,  throw  down  your 

golden  calf! 

And  you,  Columbia,  the  land  that  should  the  fore 
most  be, 

Think  not  true  greatness  always  springs  from 
boasted  liberty ; 

If  millionaires  are  your  best  growth,  as  well,  for  all 
your  pains, 

Your  forests  still  unbroken  stood,  the  Indian  on 
your  plains ! 

I  walk  your  streets,  Columbia,  amid  the  bustling 

throng, 
I  see  the  weak  and  foolish  face,  the  face  clear-cut 

and  strong, 

84 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

The  young,  the  old,  the  rich,  the  poor,  the  slow,  the 
swift,  are  there, 

And  sometimes  as  I  musing  go  I  meet  the  million 
aire. 


I  watch  them  as  they  jostle  by,  I  scan  the  eager 
crowd, 

The  timid  and  the  bold  I  see,  the  humble  and  the 
proud ; 

But  there's  one  face  I  seek  in  vain,  the  visage  that 
displays 

Sure  witness  of  a  stainless  life  and  length  of  well- 
spent  days. 

Oh!  favored  land,  from  sea  to  sea  far-stretched 
beneath  the  sky, 

On  realms  like  yours  did  never  yet  the  yellow  sun 
shine  lie ; 

Were  fields  like  these  but  given  to  you  to  nurture 
bulls  and  bears, 

And  yield  their  ample  harvestings  for  spoils  for 

millionaires  ? 

85 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

The  crops  you  raise,  Columbia,  your  heaping  gran 
aries  fill, 

But  what  of  them  who  in  their  sweat  your  boundless 
acres  till? 

This  is  the  crop,  compared  with  which,  all  other 
growths  are  poor, 

Have  you  bestowed  the  care  on  them  to  make  their 
harvest  sure? 


Oh !  tell  them  that  unblinded  all  by  this  wide  glare 

of  gold, 
Him  of  the  spotless  heart  and  hand  you  still  in 

honor  hold, 
The  just,  the  gentlv-natured  man,  unstained  by 

fraud  or  guile, 
Or  poor  or  rich — if  only  rich  with  gains  of  honest 

toil. 

Say  that  you  know  your  strength  is  there,  where 

hearts  are  strongly  pure, 
That  only  in  the  growth  of  such  your  glory  can 

endure ; 

86 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

And  if  he  roll  in  countless  wealth  or  if  he  daily 

plod, 
The  man  cannot  stand  well  with  you  that  stands  not 

well  with  God. 


And  tell  your  laboring  myriads,  they  too  are 
nature's  kings, 

And  free  to  them  are  all  the  fields  in  which  true 
affluence  springs, 

And  that  the  direst  poverty  that  mortals  e'er  dis 
tressed, 

Is  only  where  the  human  soul  dies  in  the  human 
breast. 

Pure    in    his    thought,    clean    of    his    speech,    by 

Heaven's  own  sunshine  fanned 
Lo !    here  is  my  new  gentleman,  he  of  the  horny 

hand; 
Nor   blazon'd   shield,   nor  pedigree   he  brings   to 

prove  his  worth, 
And  yet  his  country's  proud  of  him,  and  that  she 

gave  him  birth. 

87 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Say  to  the  sons,  Columbia,  whom  your  broad  boun 
daries  hold, 

That  earth  has  better  fruits  to  show  than  heaps  of 
yellow  gold; 

For  Sodom's  apples  let  them  not,  mistaken,  blindly 
slave, 

But  for  the  nobler  vintages  that  live  beyond  the 
grave. 

The  spirit  wise,  through  action  born  of  balanced 

thought  refined, 
The  open  heart,  the  seeing  eye,  the  understanding 

mind, 
Though  proud,  yet  humble,  undistraught  by  sordid 

joys  or  fears, 
Undazzled  by  the  shows  of  things  through  all  the 

rolling  years. 

Or  rich  or  poor,  the  equal  still  of  equal  rich  and 

poor, 
No   higher   and    no   lower   known,   in    self-respect 

secure, 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Not  giving  more  nor  taking  less  than  he  will  take 

or  give, 
Content  in  human  brotherhood  as  brother  full  to 

live. 


No  claim  of  higher  lineage  shall  e'er  by  him  be  filed, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Nature's  God  the  long-descended 

child, 
No  boast  of  wealth  or  outward  store  that  haply  may 

be  his, 
His  merit  not  in  what  he  has  but  there — in  what 

he  is. 


To  needful  laws,  in  rev'rence  held,  he  gives  obe 
dience  due, 

Still  firm  to  make  those  laws  obeyed  by  all  his 
fellows  too, 

For  every  natural  human  right  prepared  to  make 
demand, 

Intolerant  alike  of  slave  or  tyrant  in  the  land. 

89 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

Not  heedless  of  the  claims  of  earth,  the  home  of 

mortal  man, 
For  her  blest  inmate  made  so  fair  by  the  Eternal 

plan, 
But  living  life  in  measure  full,  by  no  vain  terrors 

driven ; 
The  pleasant  paths  on  earth,  he  knows,  are  those 

that  lead  to  Heaven. 


The  sacred  joys  of  human  kind,  from  these  he  will 

not  flee, 
His  faithful  wife  shall  know  his  breast,  his  children 

seek  his  knee, 
Whate'er  the  fate  in  store  for  him  when  life's  last 

sands  are  run, 
The  gifts  God  sets  on  earth  for  him,  he'll  use  them, 

every  one. 

No  visage  sour,  no  long-drawn  face,  unmeet  for 
true  and  brave, 

No  abject  prayer  in  terror  whined  before  the  im 
pending  grave; 

90 


Millionaire  Vulgaris 

In  trust  invincible  he'll  live,  and  when  his  days  are 

past, 
From  paradise  co  paradise  serenely  go  at  last ! 

Such  are  the  sons,  Columbia,  that  should  be  born 

by  thee, 
And  thou  in  store  of  such  as  these  thy  greatest 

wealth  shouldst  see, 
Then  couldst  thou  lift  thy  queenly  brows,  fanned 

by  the  heavenly  airs, 
The  richest  nation  of  them  all — though  not  with 

millionaires ! 


91 


INTROSPECTION 

"Oh,  wad  some  power  to  ithers  (fie 
To  see  us  as  oursel's  we  see !" 

— BURNS— TRANSPOSKD. 

I  HEAR  my  name  in  public  talk 

With  favor  mentioned  and  with  blame ; 

Yet  seldom  does  my  cheek  betray 
Or  blush  of  pride  or  flush  of  shame. 


And  honest  friends  will  question  me : 
"  You  seem  to  care  not  what  they  say  ?" 

And  marvel  lightly  that  I  keep 
So  calmly  my  accustomed  way. 


Ah !   not  what  papers  say,  nor  what 

Misknowing  people  gossip  free, 
Believing  what  they  meanly  wish ; — 

It  is  not  this  that  troubles  me  ! 
92 


Introspection 

But  sometimes  when  I  musing  sit 

And  all  that's  come  and  gone  review, 

I  find  myself  in  lonely  hours 
Inclined  to  be  a  little  blue ; 

For  when  I  scan  the  doubtful  all 

I've  placed  upon  the  past's  full  shelf, 

What  always  stings  me  most  is  this : 
My  poor  opinion  of  myself ! 

I  would  not  grieve  although  the  world 

To  me  forgot  to  lift  its  hat, 
Nor  tine  my  peace  'cause  he  or  he 

About  me  uttered  this  or  that, 

Could  I  but  in  a  private  hour, 

Unmindful  of  such  blame  or  praise, 

Give  ear  with  tranquil  mind  to  what 
The  still  small  voice  within  me  says ! 

The  still  small  voice  that  will  not  cease, 

That  burns  like  flame  for  broken  laws ; 
The  cheer  that  never  yet  was  heard 

That's  yet  the  only  true  applause ! 
93 


Introspection 

The  honors  of  the  earth  I  know ; 

The  clang  of  Fame's  far-sounding  bell ; 
How  pleasing  to  be  pointed  out ; 

But  also,  this  I  know  full  well, 

The  highest  honor  still  it  is, 

Though  blazon'd  on  no  shining  roll : 
To  stand  among  the  only  great 

The  noble  and  the  pure  in  soul ! 

These  let  me  join,  and  then  shall  I, 
Whate'er  the  world  may  think  or  say ; 

Approving  voices  hear  within 
To  cheer  me  on  my  better  way. 

My  better  way  that  leads  afar 

From  where  the  muddy  siren  sings, 

And  brings  my  feet  to  certain  paths, 
To  clearer  airs,  diviner  things ! 


94 


VETERAN'S    FUNERAL 

THE  flowers  were  heaped  o'er  his  sabre  sheathed, 

By  loving  hands  strown  deep, 
And  prayers  were  whispered  and  blessings  breathed 

Where  he  lay  in  his  final  sleep ; 
And  music  of  choir  and  of  organ  rolled, 

Pealing  through  chancel  and  nave, 
And  the  solemn  bell  of  his  passing  told, 

As  we  buried  our  fallen  brave ! 


Nor  chant  was  wanting  nor  volum'd  song, 

Hymning  the  soldier's  praise, 
Nor  speech  that  lingered,  loving  and  long, 

O'er  his  deeds  in  the  perilous  days 
When  the  storm  clouds  hung  o'er  the  troubled  land, 

And  the  nation's  heart  grew  cold 
As  the  cannon  thunder'd  the  foe's  demand, 

And  nearer  their  echoes  rolled. 
95 


Veteran's  Funeral 

We  heard  how  he  sprang  in  that  day  of  care 

With  the  valiant  proudly  forth, 
When  the  shattering  trumpets  rent  the  air, 

Calling  the  Men  of  the  North ; 
Calling  them  swift  where  the  loud  tube's  jaws 

Were  flaming  with  shot  and  shell ; — 
Eager  to  die  for  their  country's  cause, 

And  the  flag  they  loved  so  well ! 

His  war-worn  comrades  did  not  lack, 

And  their  eyes  with  tears  grew  dim ; 
All  the  days  of  danger  and  death  came  back 

As  sadly  they  looked  at  him ; 
And  the  flag  was  round  him  for  which  he  bled, 

And  medal  and  clasp  he  bore ; — 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  patriot  dead 

In  honor  for  evermore ! 


Slowly  they  lifted  him  up  at  last, 

Those  veterans  wan  and  grim, 
And  our  heads  bowed  lowly  as  they  passed, 

And  we  thought  not  wholly  of  him ; 
96 


Veteran's  Funeral 

For  their  steps  were  feeble  that  once  were  bold, 

Their  temples  hoary  and  bare ; 
And  we  marked  upon  them  the  scars  that  told 

That  they,  too,  had  been  there ! 

Bearing  him  tenderly  forth  they  go, 

And  the  soldier's  step  they  keep, 
The  muffled  drum-beat  following  slow 

To  the  place  of  the  soldier's  sleep ; 
With  trembling  hands  lay  him  softly  away, 

And  the  covering  earth  restore, 
There  leave  him  to  stay  till  the  Judgment  Day 

In  honor  for  evermore ! 

They  are  mustering  out  at  that  last  command, 
They  drop  from  phalanx  and  file, 

The  heroes  that  rescued  this  fair  land 
Where  freedom  and  plenty  smile ; 

And  oh !  let  them  not  unheeded  fall, 
Let  the  heart  of  the  nation  stir 

As  they  pass  who  gave  at  their  country's  call 

All  the  best  they  had,  for  her  ! 
7  97 


Veteran's  Funeral 

Lay  them  away  with  a  people's  cries, 

With  your  tears  their  graves  bedew ; 
Let  the  children  know  how  you  grandly  prize 

What  the  fathers  did  for  you ; 
Lay  them  away  in  the  quiet  bed — 

Safe  from  the  cannon's  roar — 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  patriot  dead 

In  honor  for  evermore! 


NEW   YEAR'S   WAIL   OF  A   BENEDICT 

"  But  how  the  subject  theme  may  gang 

Let  time  and  chance  determine, 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 
Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon." 

— BURNS. 

THEY  tell  me  of  Heaven  and  its  gates  of  gold 

Its  walls  of  jasper  and  stores  untold 

Of  gems  such  as  ne'er  on  earth  were  seen — 

No  mortal  eye  could  abide  their  sheen. 

Where  sapphires,  rubies  and  emeralds  rare 

Are  common  as  chuckstones  otherwhere; 

With  amethysts  there  you  could  fill  whole  fleets 

And  diamonds  are  used  to  gravel  the  streets ; 

With  other  glories  I  can't  recall, 

I  used  to  know  them  when  I  was  small ; 

I  used  to  know  them  and  think  some  day 

They  would  all  be  mine ;   but  far  away 

Are  vanished  now  those  innocent  times, 

I  hear  no  longer  the  heavenly  chimes, 

For  some  sad  how,  in  these  late  years 

Old  Mother  Earth,  betwixt  hopes  and  fears 

99 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

That  stretch  no  farther  than  her  poor  bound 
All  thoughts  celestial  in  me  has  drowned; 
I've  been  so  put  to  it  making  a  livin' 
I've  lost  all  interest,  it  seems,  in  Heaven. 

I  suppose,  lost  Heaven  of  those  young  years 

I  should  mourn  your  passing  with  scalding  tears, 

That  my  wailing  numbers  should  clearly  show 

The  grief  I  feel  to  have  fallen  so  low 

As  to  care  no  more  in  the  least  for  you 

Because  on  Earth  I've  so  much  to  do ; 

To  have  come  at  last  in  my  lonely  age 

Through  toil  and  trouble  to  that  sad  stage 

Where  all  I  pray  for  is  rest  and  peace 

After  surrender  of  Life's  hard  lease ; 

Oh !   methinks  it  were  surely  the  better  plan 

For  a  poor  packhorse  of  a  married  man — 

( My  wayward  muse  for  her  theme  has  picked 

The  New  Year's  wail  of  a  Benedict)— 

Worn  and  worried  through  weary  years 

Hardened  beyond  either  hopes  or  fears 

Still  on  the  looming  edge  of  defeat 

In  the  battle  of  making  both  ends  meet ; 

100 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

I  say  it  were  surely  the  better  plan 

For  such  a  heavily-laden  one 

To  softly  creep  into  Earth's  kind  breast 

And  lie  down  there  in  eternal  rest ; 

(For  though  she  spread  but  a  slim  repast 

She'll  lodge  you  warmly  at  the  last.) 

So  I  long  no  more  for  your  jasper  walls 

Your  gates  of  gold  and  gem-starred  halls 

For  the  way  I  feel,  now  that  I'm  grown  old, 

To  put  it  in  gates  is  a  poor  use  of  gold ; 

I  should  take  no  comfort  in  these,  I  know, 

I'd  rather  be  slumbering  here  below, 

Down  in  the  dust  with  the  moles  and  worms, 

But  safe  from  the  squalls  and  tempests  and  storms, 

And  as  for  the  people  I'd  meet  up  there 

They  are  not  my  kind  and  I  shouldn't  care 

To  meet  them  in  Heaven  or  Hades  or 

In  any  old  hall  or  corridor ; 

They  would  only  bore  me ;   and  so  I  see 

That  that  kind  of  Heaven  is  not  for  me ! 

I  say  these  people  are  not  my  kind 

And  that's  the  notion  that's  in  my  mind ; 

101 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

It  moves  me  to  anything  but  mirth 

To  notice  the  sort  of  people  on  earth 

Who  are  certain,  themselves,  of  going  to  Heaven, 

And  to  whose  believing  credit  is  given 

By  most  of  their  fellows — but  not  by  me ! 

I  think  that  some  of  them  wofully 

Will  be  deceived  when  the  due  time  comes 

And  they  hear  anigh  the  eternal  drums ; 

That  an  ominous  throb  in  that  deep  sound 

Will  strike  somehow  with  a  dread  profound 

Ears  that  waited  for  other  notes — 

The  music  of  welcome  that  lightly  floats 

From  hautboy,  cymbal,  dulcimer,  harp, 

In  whose  sweet  cadence  is  nothing  sharp ; — 

But  the  drums  give  warning  of  wounds  and  wars, 

Oh !  it's  not  so  easy  to  get  to  the  stars  ! 

Earth  has  not  to  me  been  overkind 
I've  known  the  hell  of  a  tortured  mind, 
The  weary  day  and  the  sleepless  night 
Have  not  been  strangers  to  this  poor  wight ; 
Of  bitter  blasts  I  have  felt  the  force 

And  the  gnawing  anguish  of  remorse ; 

102 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

The  floods  have  hemmed  me,  with  not  a  knoll 
To  swim  to,  and  Peter,  the  good  old  soul, 
Who  saw  my  bufferings,  I've  no  doubt, 
Though  he  never  offered  to  pull  me  out, 
Yet  from  what  I  have  read  I  think  he'd  be 
Inclined  at  the  last  to  be  good  to  me ; — 
(I've  always  heard  he  was  kind  at  heart 
To  married  men  and  took  their  part ; 
He  knows  the  burdens  of  that  hard  state 
And  likes  on  the  sly  to  open  his  gate 
To  its  crushed  martyrs  when  at  his  wicket 
They  tremblingly  ask  for  an  entrance  ticket. ) 
Old  Peter,  I  think,  if  he's  watched  my  case 
Would  show  me  too  just  a  little  grace 
And  mercifully  would  take  me  in 
When  at  his  portal  I  raised  my  din ; 
But  my  courage  fails  me,  my  fancy  faints 
Before  that  army  of  musical  saints. 
A  halo  wouldn't  look  well  on  me, 
And  wings  and  I  could  never  agree ; 
Feathers  are  well  on  a  goose  or  a  crow 
But  where  I  could  wear  them  I  don't  know ; 


103 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

It  makes  me  smile  and  feel  like  a  clown 
To  think  of  myself  in  a  golden  crown, 
And  as  for  the  music  of  cymbal  or  harp 
I  ne'er  could  distinguish  flat  from  sharp, 
And  so,  as  I  say,  it  is  not  for  me 
That  fairy  heaven  of  my  infancy, 
All  I  now  ask  for  is  peace  on  earth 
This  whirling  clayball  that  gave  me  birth 
The  only  world  I  am  sure  of  knowing 
Out  of  which  I  came,  into  which  I'm  going. 
Give  me  money  enough  to  take  me  through 
So  I  sha'n't  be  obliged  any  stealing  to  do ! 
Let  me  leave  the  board  with  a  decent  name 
When  I  resign  from  the  luckless  game ; 
Give  me  food  and  raiment  where'er  I  roam 
With  calmness  abroad  and  quiet  at  home, 
With  loving  kindness  to  all  my  fellows 
And  not  for  one  of  them  any  malice. 
(These  last  two  lines  I  have  heard  before, 
I  think  they  are  out  of  the  Gettysburg  roar ! ) 
And  Oh,  St.  Peter!  if  you  really  exist 
And  you  have,  as  they  say,  a  merciful  twist, 


104 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

Would  you  grant,  Oh  Peter,  my  liveliest  wishing 
Let  me  off  sometimes  for  a  good  day's  fishing ! 
Grant  me  only  these  and  the  musical  saint 
Can  tootle  away  to  his  heart's  content ! 

But  at  this  glad  season — so  people  call  it — 
Never  glad  for  me — may  evil  befall  it — 
When  the  old  year  goes  and  the  new  comes  in 
And  the  household  bills,  as  over  a  linn 
Are  pouring  upon  you,  all  to  be  paid, 
Till  you're  sick  at  heart,  discouraged,  afraid, 
And  the  burden  weighs  on  the  "  head  of  the  house" 
Till  he  wishes  he  were  but  a  rat  or  a  mouse 
And  could  crawl  away  into  some  dark  hole 
Where  bills  couldn't  reach  him  to  wring  his  soul 
When  your  cash  runs  low  and  your  outlook's  dim 
And  you're  not  in  the  money-making  swim, 
Growing  feebler  too  both  in  mind  and  frame — 
But  the  bills  come  rolling  in  just  the  same — 
Oh  !  at  such  a  time,  if  the  power  were  given 
To  me,  I'd  make  for  myself  a  heaven ! 
And  very  simple  my  rules  would  be — 

There  wouldn't  be  of  them  but  two  or  three — 

105 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

And  one  of  the  first  would  be  this,  you  bet, 
There  should  be  no  trusting  or  running  in  debt ; 
Were  your  better  half  for  drygoods  inclined 
She  should  pay  cash  down  or  leave  them  behind ; 
Did  your  daughter  covet  a  fine  new  bonnet 
She  should  never  wear  it  with  debt  upon  it ; 
Oh !  if  this  plain  rule  were  only  followed 
What  rivers  of  misery  would  be  swallowed 
In  the  tranquil  sea  of  domestic  peace, 
What    wranglings    and   j  anglings    would    thereby 
cease! 


But  if  stores  must  trust  and  stores  must  be  there 

This  other  edict  should  be  my  care ; 

I'd  utter  my  fiat  and  make  it  plain 

No  women  should  come  there,  but  only  men ; 

'Twould  be  law  and  gospel  in  my  Van  Diemen, 

No  drygoods  stores  or  else  no  women ! 

For  the  foolish  creatures,  so  far's  I  see, 

Seem  to  think  two  and  two  make  only  three ; 

But  the  chap  that  sells  them  the  merchandise 

Doesn't  like  to  add,  so  he  multiplies, 

106 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

And  the  two  and  two,  when  they've  left  his  pen, 
Are  six  at  the  least  and  sometimes  ten ! 


("  The  ladies,"  for  this  true  song  I  sing 

Will  say  I'm  a  peevish,  a  cranky  thing, 

The  names  they'll  call  me,  I  hear  them  now, 

But  never  a  frown  comes  on  my  brow, 

My  muse  will  warble  the  way  she  feels 

And  to  you,  Oh  married  men,  she  appeals ! 

You  know  the  torture  of  those  sore  ills 

You've  "  footed"  them  often,  those  awful  bills!) 

And  as  for  the  men :  In  my  hereafter 
I'd  fill  it  with  joy  and  pleasure  and  laughter, 
And  I'd  save  it  mainly,  my  land  of  mirth, 
For  those  who  had  been  unhappy  on  earth, 
Whose  eyes  down  there  had  been  used  to  tears 
And  hearts  been  heavy  through  long,  long  years ; 
And  for  those  who'd  wander'd  and  gone  astray 
And  lost  in  the  bogs  and  thickets  their  way, 
Nor  ever  again  that  way  could  find, 
Oh,  to  these  I  think  I'd  be  doubly  kind ! 

107 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

Unto  such  as  these  should  be  surely  given 
The  best  front  seats  in  my  new  heaven ; 
And  to  bring  them  forward  I  shouldn't  halt 
Because  their  falling  was  their  own  fault; 
For  where  the  blame  for  the  fault  first  lay 
Ah !  that's  not  an  easy  thing  to  say ; 
And  if  some  mortal  should  thither  roam 
Who  hadn't  been  overblissful  at  home 
Down  here  below,  how  my  doors  should  spin 
To  let  that  weary  wanderer  in  ! 
Oh !  it  seems  to  me  but  a  selfish  thing 
For  those  who  on  earth  had  everything 
That  earth  could  give  and  been  happy  there, 
Never  known  misfortune,  defeat,  despair, 
Snug  by  the  fireside  while  in  the  storm 
Others  were  freezing,  they  still  warm — 
Oh !  why  should  they  who've  been  favored  so, 
Clamor  for  bliss  hereafter  too? 
Surely  it  seems  they  ask  too  much, 
That  earth  should  be  sufficient  for  such ; 
The  storm-tossed  only  should  find  the  calm 
And  the  bleeding  heart  in  heaven  its  balm ! 


108 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

My  neighbor  Tompkins  across  the  street 

Is  held  by  the  world  for  a  man  complete, 

A  thriving,  driving,  successful  man, 

Skillful  to  plot  and  able  to  plan 

With  a  great  big  fortune  swelling  fast 

His  flag  still  flying  at  full  topmast ; 

No  care,  no  trouble,  does  Tompkins  know 

Except  when  one  of  his  schemes  won't  "  go" ; 

His  days  are  busy,  his  sleep  is  sound, 

Quickly  for  him  the  months  roll  round, 

And  each  year's  end  sees  an  added  store 

To  what  was  more  than  enough  before ; 

No  thought  has  Tompkins  that  e'er  had  birth 

Anywhere  but  in  earthiest  earth ; 

He  likes  success  and  he  likes  control 

And  that  clog  to  a  "  business  man,"  a  soul, 

Never  hindered  him  when  bent  on  winning 

Or  bothered  his  mind  with  thoughts  of  sinning ; 

For  though  he  likes  to  be  counted  "  square," 

He  likes,  too,  the  joy  of  "  getting  there." 

Gossip  to  him  is  but  idle  wind, 

He  makes  his  point  and  he's  not  thin-skinned ; 


109 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

An  envied,  a  rising,  looked-up-to  man 

Soon  to  be  found  in  the  foremost  van, 

Of  the  "  leading  men"  neither  least  nor  last 

In  the  "  hustling"  town  where  his  lot's  been  cast ; 

But  were  I  to  name  the  chief  of  his  joys 

I'd  say  that  it's  this !    His  girls  and  his  boys 

And  the  wife  of  his  bosom  all  think  that  he 

Is  the  pink  and  flower  of  humanity ; 

That  man  could  be  greater  they  can't  conceive, 

In  him,  him  only,  do  they  believe, 

Not  a  thing  they  crave  that  he  cannot  give ; 

In  perfect  peace  and  content  they  live ; 

Sailing  through  life  with  not  one  lurch — 

I  wonder  to  see  them  going  to  church — 

It  can't  be  they  go  to  make  sure  of  heaven 

But  rather  not  from  earth  to  be  riven. 

Since  she's  cut  them  off  such  a  great  big  slice 

What  can  they  want  of  a  Paradise? 

Had  favors  like  these  to  me  been  shown 

I'd  only  pray  to  be  let  alone ! 

The  foolish  mortals,  if  I  see  through  it, 

They're  in  Paradise  now — if  they  only  knew  it! 


110 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

(Yet  Tompkins  at  times  is  not  so  bold, 
I've  noticed  whenever  he  has  a  cold 
Or  in  some  small  way  doesn't  feel  quite  well 
You'd  think  from  his  looks  he  had  heard  the  bell 
That  tolled  for  the  drawing  of  his  last  breath — 
Ah !  never  talk  to  Tompkins  of  death ! 
For  how  could  you  ask  him  not  to  grieve 
To  think  of  going  with  so  much  to  leave ; 
Oh !  there's  one  sad  comfort  in  this  hard  life 
To  those  who've  found  it  with  misery  rife 
With  cares  and  worries  and  sobbing  and  sighing 
They're  not  so  afraid  as  the  happy  of  dying ! ) 

I've  another  neighbor  whom  I  know  well, 

I'll  call  him  Jenkins ;  he  doesn't  spell 

His  name  that  way,  but  for  my  affairs 

'Twill  answer  as  well  as  the  one  he  bears ; 

He's  a  pensive,  sensitive,  silent  man, 

Framed  on  a  finer,  more  delicate  plan 

Than  Tompkins,  that  satisfied  son  of  Mammon, 

But  this  is  a  man  of  a  kind  not  common, 

By  nature  lofty  and  pure  in  soul, 

With  thoughts  not  bounded  by  this  poor  hole 

111 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

In  which  he  drudges  at  tasks  he  loathes, 

And  yet  he  must  drudge,  for  food  and  clothes 

Are  not  to  be  got  by  musing  and  dreaming, 

And  he  hasn't  got  Tompkins'  head  for  scheming. 

Inclined  all  outward  show  to  detest, 

"  Plain  living,  high  thinking,"  these  suit  him  best 

Not  a  winner  he  in  the  worldly  strife 

And  humble  and  simple  must  be  his  life, 

And  this  quick  thorn  in  his  breast  he  carries, 

A  barb  oft  borne  by  the  man  that  marries, 

While  the  simple  life  for  him  is  enough 

There  are  those  about  him  of  different  stuff ; 

Alas  for  him  !  they  for  whom  he  labors 

Are  other-minded ;  their  richer  neighbors 

They  envy  and  lay  the  blame  on  him 

That  they,  too,  are  not  in  the  fullest  swim 

Of  the  little  life  which  to  them  were  all 

But  to  him  so  weary,  barren  and  small ; 

Could  they  only  with  the  Tompkinses  vie 

And  diamonds,  horses  and  carriages  buy, 

And  live  like  them  in  a  great  big  house, 

The  table  groaning  with  venison,  grouse, 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

And  all  the  dainties  people  must  eat 

To  be  of  the  upper  ten  complete ; 

Be  seen  at  the  opera  and  the  ball 

And  other  functions  that  loudly  call 

On  the  hearts  of  idle,  silly  women, 

Joyous  they'd  be  as  shipwrecked  seamen 

'Scaped  from  the  thundering  breakers'  roar 

And  tumbled  at  last  on  a  saving  shore ; 

But  my  poor  friend,  though  he  does  his  best, 

Nor  whines  nor  whimpers,  'tis  manifest 

That  having  no  hea  t  for  a  worldly  life 

He's  no  fit  mate  *or  a  worldly  wife ; 

Nor  can  wholly  the  worship  of  daughters  gain 

Who've  taken  from  her  the  stronger  strain 

And  toss  their  heads  at  the  quiet  nook 

Where  lies  his  solace  in  pipe  and  book. 

Oh !  for  such  a  one,  not  caring  to  roam 

How  deadly  not  to  be  happy  at  home, 

Oh !  man's  hard  fate  and  yet  so  common — 

Millstoned  through  life  with  a  foolish  woman ! 

But  yet,  Oh  friend,  while  I  pity  you 

I  mourn  and  grieve  for  your  partner  too ; 
8  113 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

Why  couldn't  she  some  Tompkins  have  found 

With  whom  her  days  had  been  one  long  round 

Of  common  pleasures  and  earthly  blisses 

Which  now  with  you  she  so  sorely  misses? 

Right  well  I  gather  what  she  endures ; 

Her  life,  I  fear,  is  as  wrecked  as  yours 

(And  that  life,  too,  as  precious  to  her 

As  yours  to  you,  my  philosopher ! 

With  an  equal  privilege  not  to  miss 

Its  share  of  content  and  happiness. 

Oh  Jenkins,  my  friend,  when  I  turn  it  o'er 

I  only  grow  doubtful  more  and  more 

And  a  thought  comes  to  me  I  scarce  can  check 

That  you  are  the  millstone  and  hers  the  neck ! 

That  the  Powers  above  us  count  nothing  common 

That's  dear  to  the  natural  heart  of  woman. ) 

But  howe'er  that  be  'tis  an  awful  thing 

When  the  mated  bells  discordant  ring ; 

As  I  think  of  Jenkins'  face  of  care 

This  is  my  cry,  my  earnest  prayer : 

Heaven  help  all  husbands  and  eke  all  wives 

Who've  blundered  thus  in  uniting  their  lives ; 


114 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

Don't  talk  to  me  of  a  hell  hereafter, 
You  only  move  me  to  bitter  laughter. 
Here,  in  the  present,  on  my  own  street, 
I  can  show  you  a  Hades  all  complete ; 
I  could  take  you  there  in  a  minute's  walk, 
With  Jenkins  for  guide — if  he'd  only  talk ! 

I  sometimes  fancy  old  Earth  is  jealous 

Of  those  uneasy  misanthrope  fellows 

Who  gloomily  go  their  daily  rounds 

Sighing  for  something  beyond  her  bounds ; 

If  you'd  have  your  mother  be  kind  to  you 

To  her  be  a  son  or  a  daughter  true ; 

Think  you  she'll  open  to  you  her  store 

If  she  thinks  there's  a  something  you  prize  more 

Than  aught  she  gives  and  are  one  of  the  scoffers 

At  the  treasures  of  her  o'erflowing  coffers? 

If  you'd  be  happy  in  her  domain 

Then  let  no  rival  your  favor  gain, 

The  bliss  hereafter,  the  future  woe, 

Are  only  fables  for  all  you  know. 

Maybe,  dreams  and  nightmares  gave  them  birth, 

Will  you  poison  for  these  your  days  on  Earth? 

115 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

Why  puzzle  o'er  riddles  you  can  ne'er  make  clear, 
It's  a  comfortable  thing  to  be  happy  here ! 

Maybe  'twere  better,  Oh  Jenkins !   my  friend 

If  to  all  your  mooning  you  put  an  end, 

If  the  "  word  of  the  poet"  you  put  aside 

And  mounted  the  horse  that  the  worldly  ride, 

Making  your  mind  up  that  Earth  is  all 

And  shutting  your  ears  to  the  siren  call 

You  fancy  you  hear  in  your  quiet  hours 

Appealing  to  so-called  nobler  powers ; 

That  you  closed  your  eyes  to  the  morning  stars 

And  let  them  sink  'neath  the  cloudy  bars 

Never  again  to  greet  the  sight 

Of  one  content  with  the  common  light ; 

That  you  deemed  the  making  of  earthly  money 

More  than  the  heavenly  milk  and  honey, 

That,  taking  a  lesson  from  Tompkins'  book 

You  sprang  from  your  contemplative  nook 

Into  the  ranks  of  the  hunters  for  gold 

There  to  be  ground  to  the  common  mould ; 

Could  you  only  do  this,  Oh  Jenkins,  my  friend ! 

How  soon  your  heartaches  would  have  an  end. 

116 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

The  saddest,  you  say,  of  all  self-slaughters  ? — 

But  think  what  a  joy  to  your  wife  and  daughters ! 

The  hot  heartburnings  over  and  past ; 

The  yoke  unequal  were  equal  at  last. 

And  maybe  in  making  them  content 

Your  days,  friend  Jenkins,  were  better  spent 

Than  in  dreaming  of  things  beyond  the  clouds 

That  come  to  men  only  with  their  shrouds 

If  they  come  at  all,  and  that's  uncertain, 

None  yet  has  lifted  that  dread  curtain. 

But  I  fear,  Oh  Jenkins,  the  "  ray  of  heaven" 
That's  in  you — Mercy  !  why  was  it  given  ? 
If  he  that  gave  it  your  good  designed 
He  spoiled  you  for  work  of  the  Tompkins  kind ; 
I  fear  that  ray,  that  deadly  gleam, 
That  lights  your  heart  up  while  you  dream 
Will  make  it  hard  for  you  to  sup 
With  common  men  from  the  common  cup. 
And  should  you  try  it,  Oh !  what  remorse 
Like  his  who  feels  he  is  growing  coarse, 
Or  where  such  anguish  and  such  gloom 
As  a  noble  nature's  for  its  lost  bloom ; 

117 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

Desp'rately  striving  but  sinking  still, 
And  ever  weaker  growing  the  will, 
Slipping  and  sliding  and  falling  fast, 
The  lights  celestial  all  overcast, 
Down  to  the  pit  where  the  tears  of  blood 
Dry  in  the  oceans  of  common  mud : — 
Oh,  Mother  Earth !  'tis  said  you're  given 
To  men  as  a  stepping-stone  to  heaven, 
But  you  face  both  ways,  as  the  lost  can  tell, 
And  your  easiest  stairs  lead  down  to  hell ! 

Maybe  Jenkins'  lot,  when  he's  gone  hence 
To  the  dim  hereafter,  will  recompense 
For  all  the  troubles  he's  had  on  earth ; 
'Twere  pleasing  to  think  he'd  get  a  berth 
Would  gladden  his  heart  and  make  him  happy 
As  Shanter  Tarn  was  o'er  his  "  nappy" ; 
With  fullest  scope  in  the  heavenly  tent 
To  follow,  joyful,  his  soul's  true  bent; 
With  a  front-row  seat  and  a  clearer  view 
Of  all  that  the  radiant  angels  do 
Than  Tompkins,  seated  away  behind 
Or  with  the  "  gallery  gods"  confined, 

118 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

(Discovering  that  though  big  below 

He  wasn't  up  here  the  total  show ; ) 

'Twere  pleasing  to  think,  for  Jenkins'  sake, 

At  last  had  come  his  chance  at  the  cake, 

And,  the  seams  all  smoothed  from  his  troubled  brow, 

He  could  say  from  his  heart :  It's  all  right  now ! 

But  Oh,  friend  Jenkins !  while  thus  I  wish, 

I  doubt  the  hereafter  makes  not  fish 

Of  one  and  flesh  of  another,  but  all 

Are  treated  alike — no  great,  no  small — 

That  the  Powers  above  us,  whate'er  they  be, 

Rate  Tompkins  as  highly  as  you  or  me ; 

They  sent  him  here  as  they  sent  the  rest, 

And  who's  going  to  say  who's  worst,  who  best  ? 

And  maybe,  as  I  have  said,  this  scheme 
Of  a  world  hereafter  is  only  a  dream ; 
And  sometimes,  musing  in  quiet  hours 
On  Life  and  Death  and  the  unseen  Powers 
A  thought  comes  to  me,  in  rainbow  array, 
That  that,  even  that,  were  the  nobler  way ; 
'Tis  a  grand  old  thought  when  you  apprehend 

Earth  may  be  all,  beginning  and  end. 

119 


New  Year's  Wail  of  a  Benedict 

I  know  this  notion  with  heresy's  rife 
But  Oh,  how  sacred  it  makes  this  life ! 

And  now,  friend  Jenkins,  with  moistened  eye 

I  bid  you  farewell,  I  say  good-bye ! 

The  time  comes  soon  both  to  you  and  me 

When  all  the  mystery  we  may  see 

And  understand — shall  we  lose  or  win, 

Or  just  go  out  as  we  once  came  in? 

After  all  our  fretting  and  fuming  and  frothing 

Shall  we  find  out  at  last — well,  only  nothing? 

But  one  thing's  certain,  my  pensive  friend, 

Whate'er  awaits  you  at  the  end, 

This  fact  shines  out  with  a  light  most  clear 

That  Tompkins  at  least  has  been  happy  here. 

There's  no  denying  the  simple  claim 

That  so  far,  at  least,  he's  ahead  of  the  game ! 


120 


DEDICATED    TO    "THE    GANG" 

As  a  Solemn  Warning  and  Invocation  to  Repentance 

POOR  Freddy  Blank  has  gone  to  smash 
Through  years  of  waste  and  dissipation, 

"  The  gang"  are  startled  at  the  crash, 
Theirs  is  the  self-same  destination. 

Dame  Nature  dons  her  judge's  gown, 
Than  her's  no  verdicts  e'er  were  riper, 

And  long  ago  she  laid  it  down 

That  they  that  dance  must  pay  the  piper. 

The  piper  played  with  right  good  will 

And  Freddy  danced  and  drank  unheeding ; 

Now  comes  the  settling  of  the  bill, 

Ah,  friends,  that  is  a  sore  proceeding ! 

Old  Rhadamantha  takes  her  seat 

That  colder  is  than  frosted  metal ; 
In  vain  for  mercy  you  entreat ; 

"  My  lad,"  says  she,  "  you've  got  to  settle !" 
191 


Dedicated  to  "  The  Gang" 

How  face  that  sentence,  stern,  severe, — 
The  time  has  come  you  may  not  mock  it ! 

Whose  course  of  life  has  brought  you  here 
With  not  a  stiver  in  your  pocket  ? 

Ye  "  rounders"  that  so  long  the  boon 
Companions  were  of  broken  Freddy, 

Amend  your  ways  and  do  it  soon 
Or  else  to  share  his  fate  get  ready. 

Leave  "  booze"  alone  and  slot-machines, — 
Though  hard  may  be  such  deprivations — 

And  spare  your  healths  and  save  your  means 
And  try  to  patch  your  reputations. 

I  know  you  well,  I  know  you  all, 

And  now  I  give  you  solemn  warning, 

The  Piper  soon  will  make  his  call ; 

Ah,  that  will  be  a  blue,  blue  morning ! 

Keep  from  the  bars ;  the  mountain  dew 
Forsake,  and  shun  the  foaming  flagon ; 

There's  only  one  thing  left  for  you, 
And  that's  to  mount  the  water-wagon. 
122 


Dedicated  to  "  The  Gang" 

Climb  high,  and  when  you're  up  throw  down 
The  steps  by  which  you  have  ascended, 

Then  firmly  hold  that  coach's  crown 
Until  your  journey's  safely  ended. 

You  may  be  saved ;  even  on  the  brink 
You  may  be  pardoned  and  forgiven ; — 

And  yet  it  makes  me  smile  to  think 
Of  such  a  gang  as  yours  in  Heaven ! 

Yes ;  when  I  turn  the  business  o'er, 

Indeed  I  scarce  can  keep  from  thinking 

You'd  best  continue  as  before 

And  stick  to  slot-machines  and  drinking ! 

You  let  me  not  be  overbold 

Nor  flout  the  Maker  of  the  thunders ; 
The  Lord  is  mighty,  as  we're  told, 

And  even  with  you  may  manage  wonders. 

He  may  renew  and  cleanse  your  hearts ; — 
And,  sure,  no  change  could  be  completer, — 

And  make  you  meet  for  heavenly  parts 
And  fit  companions  for  St.  Peter. 
123 


Dedicated  to  "  The  Gang" 

If  He'll  do  this,  and  keep  your  gang 
From  slot-machines  and  aqua-vitae, 

My  voice  I'll  raise,  my  harp  I'll  twang 
And  sing :  He  is  indeed  all-mighty  ! 


124 


THE    MERCHANT    CRCESUS 

ALL  day  long  at  his  desk  he  sits, 

Taking  and  making  quotations, 
And  often  he's  almost  out  of  his  wits 

With  the  stress  of  his  occupations ; 
And  messenger-boys  and  telephone-bells 

About  him  are  racing  and  jingling, 
Till  his  weary  brain  at  the  racket  rebels ; — 

Aching  and  throbbing  and  tingling. 

And  clerks  and  book-keepers  come  and  go 

With  papers  for  his  inspection, 
Receiving  his  instant  yes  or  no, 

And  the  word  of  swift  direction ; 
There  are  letters  to  write  and  dispatches  to  send, 

And  the  typewriter's  click  ne'er  ceases, 
And  of  business,  business,  there  is  no  end 

In  the  haunt  of  the  Merchant  Croesus. 

Nor  fruitless  his  labors ;  his  gains  grow  fast, 

He  is  getting  rich  in  a  hurry, 
Nor  e'er  this  thought  through  his  brain  has  passed ; 

Is  it  worth  all  the  bother  and  worry? 
125 


The  Merchant  Croesus 

His  hives  are  heaped  to  the  very  brim 
With  their  stores  of  the  golden  honey ; — 

Yet  I  sometimes  think  when  I  look  at  him, 
That  he  pays  too  much  for  his  money  ! 

It's  wearing  him  out,  yet  to  leave  it  behind 

Vainly  you  would  beseech  him, 
Or  think  he  could  rest  or  comfort  find 

Where  the  telegrams  couldn't  reach  him ; — 
It's  wearing  him  out,  yet  he  dare  not  stop, 

His  soul  it  has  killed  already, 
And  it  won't  be  long,  if  he  don't  give  it  up — 

And  he  can't !— till  it  kill  the  body  ! 

Little  he  dreamed  of  the  deadly  clutch 

Of  the  whispering  yellow  siren ; 
But  he  came  too  near  and  he  loved  too  much, 

And  he's  fast  in  her  jaws  of  iron ; 
Softly  she  wooed  him,  the  while  she  did 

With  jewel  and  gem  bedizen  her; 
But  the  mask's  off  now  and  the  claw  not  hid 

When  she  holds  him  a  helpless  prisoner ! 
136 


The  Merchant  Croesus 

Fair  are  the  favors  that  fortune  gives, 

As  the  Scotch  folk  would  call  them,  bonnie ; 
But  I  pity  the  man  that  in  slavery  lives, 

Be't  in  slavery  to  his  money ; 
For  the  way's  not  long,  and  they  never  toy 

Nor  linger,  life's  silent  postillions, 
And  there's  much  to  see  and  much  t'  enjoy, 

Even  without  your  millions  ! 

Give  me  the  fields  and  the  balmy  woods, 

And  the  open  face  of  nature ; 
Let  me  walk  by  the  shores  of  the  sounding  floods, 

Nor  fail  of  a  man's  full  stature ; 
And  the  gleam  of  gold,  let  it  not  blind  me, 

Nor  sway  me  from  my  heart's  wishing; 
Let  who  will  be  bound,  but  let  me  be  free 

To  go,  when  I  please,  a-fishing ! 

May  the  days  yet  left  me  be  spent  in  peace, 

Mid  pleasures  of  my  own  choosing, 
Alike  to  the  rapture  of  wealth's  increase 

Unknown,  and  the  anguish  of  losing ; 
127 


The  Merchant  Croesus 

Let  my  sun  go  softly  down  to  the  west, 
All  vapors  before  him  shrinking, 

And  the  gloaming-tide  of  my  life  be  blest 
With  seasons  of  happy  thinking, 


In  some  quiet  nook,  fit  for  days  grown  calm, 

No  jangle  of  business  near  it, 
Where  the  telephone-bell  and  the  telegram 

Come  not  to  the  brooding  spirit ; 
Where  the  heart  is  still  and  the  thoughts  are  high, 

As  I  muse  in  my  mellow  moonshine, 
And  the  rainy  night  and  the  cloudy  sky 

Are  dear  as  was  once  the  sunshine ! 

And  I  think  as  I  watch  you,  oh  business  man ! 

For  gold  thus  your  heart's  blood  giving, 
That  it's  only  a  blind  and  a  foolish  plan 

By  which  your  life  you  are  living ; 
For  if  earth  be  all  and  the  grave  be  the  end, 

Nor  the  spirit  within  us  immortal, 
How  dreary  the  path  is  by  which  you  wend 

To  oblivion's  gloomy  portal ! 
128 


The  Merchant  Croesus 

The  flowers  that  in  perfect  beauty  sprang 

By  the  wayside,  you  never  saw  them, 
And  the  birds  that  so  sweetly  o'er  you  sang, 

You  passed  unheeding  below  them ; 
But  out  in  the  choking  dust  of  the  road 

You  ceased  not  your  scraping  and  raking 
For  the  rubbish  called  gold,  your  cumb'ring  load 

When  you  found  it,  still  heavier  making. 

Till  at  last  to  your  journey's  end  you  came, 

Your  hopeless  grave  to  be  stored  in, 
Where  the  mole  and  the  worm  await  your  frame, 

Freed  from  its  useless  burden ; — 
All  the  pleasure  lost  that  you  might  have  found 

By  the  way  over  which  you  hurried ; 
Not  one  sweet  memory  of  scent  or  sound ; — 

Dead  before  you  were  buried ! 

And  oh !  if  the  grave-yard  be  not  the  end 

And  the  soul  die  not  with  the  body, 
To  what  poor  uses  their  toilings  tend 

Whose  wealth  is  their  only  study ! 
9  129 


For  the  strong-box  drops  from  the  stiffening  hands 
As  they  slip  from  ledger  and  journal, 

And  he  that  bore  it  a  beggar  stands 
At  the  doors  of  the  life  eternal. 

For  me ;  I  would  treasure  each  hour  that  flies, 

Nor  waste  it  in  vain  employments ; — 
That  if  all  I  am  in  the  coffin  dies, 

I'll  have  known  life's  real  enjoyments; 
Let  me  prize  full  highly  my  earthly  home, 

Her  gifts,  her  smiles  and  her  laughter ; 
But  still  through  her  groves  and  gardens  roam 

With  my  face  to  the  dim  hereafter. 

And  He  that  made  me  and  placed  me  here, 

If  His  favor  I  humbly  merit, 
I  think  He  will  some  day  make  it  clear 

That  the  grave's  not  the  tomb  of  the  spirit ; 
And  even  to  me  may  the  kingdom  show 

That's  flowing  with  milk  and  honey, 
And  give  me  in  fullness  the  joys  to  know 

That  are  not  to  be  bought  with  money  ! 


130 


LOST 

WITH  powers  designed  for  noblest  use, 
He  stooped  to  vileness  and  to  loose 
Wild  ways  of  life  that  marred  his  soul, 
And  brought  him  under  base  control. 

Yet  oft  he  said :  "  I  will  arise 
And  seek  the  light  of  earlier  skies, 
That  once  in  fullness  shone  on  me ; 
I'll  make  me  what  I  ought  to  be. 

"  Unworthy  friends  I  will  forsake, 
All  taints  I'll  from  my  nature  shake, 
These  slimy  paths  I'll  leave  behind, 
The  walks  of  peace  again  to  find." 

Yet  though  his  wings  he  often  spread, 
His  flights  to  no  safe  eyrie  led ; 
So  thick  upon  his  feet  had  grown 
The  foulness,  still  it  dragged  him  down. 
131 


Lost 

And  so  the  war  went  wavering  on, 

Till  months  and  years  were  come  and  gone 

But  always  'twas  a  losing  fight — 

He  would  not  strive  with  all  his  might. 

But  oh !  the  agony  and  the  tears, 
The  bodings  and  the  awful  fears, 
The  waves  of  bitterness  that  roll 
Around  a  lost,  yet  struggling  soul ! 

When  in  some  sudden,  thundrous  hour, 
He  sees  the  end  before  him  lower ; 
As  by  a  lightning-flash  revealed, 
The  battle  o'er,  and  lost  the  field ! 

And  now  is  come  the  day  of  doom, 
The  clouds  are  closing  round  in  gloom ; 
Oh !  let  their  closing  be  complete, 
And  kindly  hide  this  sore  defeat ! 

The  mercy-time  for  him  gone  by, 
In  vain  for  help  his  anguished  cry ; 
Held  fast  between  the  iron  jaws 

Of  God's  inexorable  laws. 
132 


Lost 

And  swiftly  rolls  the  ruthless  tide, 
From  bank  to  bank  now  foaming  wide, 
And  gathering,  on  its  sloping  bed, 
For  that  dread  plunge,  so  nigh  ahead. 

Swept  on  by  that  remorseless  surge, 
At  last,  behold  him  at  the  verge ; 
The  blasted  life  has  reached  its  close, 
One  wailing  shriek — and  down  he  goes ! 


1SS 


DE    PROFUNDIS 

OH  !  but  it's  dreary,  dreary,  lonely  and  old  to  grow, 
Nor  ever  to  yearn  and  languish  one  friendly  soul 

to  know ; 
Weary  of  all  things  earthly ;  and  with  no  gracious 

faith 
To  long  for  one  thing  only — the  nothingness  of 

death ! 

To  have  drifted  far  from  the  highway,  the  faces 

and  voices  of  men, 
Nor  to  care  to  get  back  and  see  them  or  hear  them 

ever  again ; 
Scornful  of  all  things  mortal  and  of  future  woe  or 

bliss ; 
Oh !  but  it's  dreary,  dreary,  to  have  come  to  a  state 

like  this ! 

Where  is  the  pleasant  sunshine  that  once  you  loved 

so  well, 
The  gleam  that  flooded  with  glory  river  and  field 

and  fell, 

134 


De  Profundis 

Where  are  they  now  that  loved  you  and  the  love 

that  you  returned, 
Why  are  they  quenched  so  wholly,  those  fires  that 

brightly  burned? 

Where  did  you  lose  the  starlight,  where  did  you  find 

the  cloud, 
Where  was  the  wedding  garment  exchanged  for 

this  dark  shroud, 
What  could  it  be  that  hardened  the  heart  that  was 

once  so  kind, 
And  chilled  in  the  bitter  waters  that  once  so  cheerful 

mind  ? 

Ah !  that  were  a  dim,  dim  story,  nor  easy  to  place 

the  blame! 
The  wingless  moth,  what  drove  it  into  the  scorching 

flame? 
The   lights   of  the   North   at   midnight   gild   the 

gloomy  realms  of  frost, 
But  ah  !  there  is  no  aurora  for  the  heart  whose  hope 

is  lost! 

135 


De  Profundis 

It  is  sad  to  be  hopeless-hearted,  to  be  broken,  lonely 

and  old, 
To  have  come  to  the  shadowy  regions,  the  nights 

of  the  killing  cold, 
But  saddest  to  cease  from  loving,  nor  that  ceasing 

to  deplore, 
To  feel,  nor  care  though  you  feel  it,  that  you  can 

love  no  more ! 

Oh !  but  it's  dreary,  dreary,  unloved,  unloving  age, 
The  book  of  your  life  slow  closing  and  a  blank  now 

ev'ry  page ! 
Close  it  and  clasp  it  and  leave  it  and  get  you  under 

the  ground, 
Nor   for   you   shall   peal   any   trumpet,   nor   any 

awak'ning  sound. 

There  are  gardens  of  greenest  verdure  in  the 
desert's  sandy  sea, 

The  dews  of  heaven  have  kissed  them  and  clothed 
them  with  flow'r  and  tree, 

But  what  sweet  rain  can  revive  it,  that  barren  insen 
sate  clod, 

The  human  heart  that  has  drifted  away  from  the 

Living  God  ? 

136 


AD    MUSAM 

WANDERING  home  in  the  twilight, 

An  evening  or  two  ago, 
The  western  clouds  still  rosy, 

With  the  shortening  day's  last  glow. 

I  said :  Gone  again  is  summer, 

Ancj,  another  autumn,  too, 
The  winter  nights  are  upon  me, 

And  what  am  I  going  to  do  ? 

Will  the  Muse  once  more  come  to  me, 
When  the  frosts  the  waters  bind, 

To  the  nook  where  oft  I've  wooed  her, 
With  a  pure  and  happy  mind  ? 

Or  shall  I,  for  the  smiles  she  gave  me, 

Find  the  cold  averted  eye, 
And  vainly  attempt  to  call  her 

From  her  home  in  the  far-off  sky  ? 
137 


Ad  Musam 

How  lightly  I  seemed  to  leave  her ! 

Can  she  know  that  whate'er  I  feigned, 
Though  I  lingered,  I  knew  my  baseness 

And  my  love  for  her  remained? 

Yet  I  wasted  the  days  of  Summer 
In  a  low-pitched,  profitless  stir, 

Nor  recked  of  the  long  nights  coining 
When  I  should  be  suing  to  her. 

How  f aithless  I  was,  she  knows  it ! 

My  coldness,  and  all  my  slights 
Yet,  Oh  Muse !  once  again  befriend  me 

And  be  kind  o'  the  winter  nights ! 

For  the  hours  would  go  by  in  glory, 

Not  an  evening  be  too  long, 
Could  I  strike  the  chord  of  the  music 

Of  a  not  unworthy  song. 

Ah !  the  months  and  the  years  neglected, 

Such  as  late  I've  left  behind, 
Have  made  that  music,  I  fear  me, 

Not  easy  for  me  to  find  ! 
138 


Ad  Musam 

But  oh !  if  I  may  not  find  it, 

Have  I  lost  that  sweet  employ, 
Let  me  still  come  back  to  the  chancel 

With  the  old,  the  sacred  joy  ! 

To  them,  oh  Muse !  that  loved  you, 
Nor  failed  you  for  season  or  clime, 

Nor  squander'd  with  them  that  slight  you, 
The  priceless  years  of  their  prime ! 

That  held  to  your  service  truly, 
To  your  uttermost  garment's  hem ; 

And  still  the  truer  they  served  you 
The  kinder  you  were  to  them. 

For  though  that  calling  celestial 

Small  gain  of  the  earth  assures, 
They  know  it,  the  noble-minded, 

No  service  hath  wage  like  yours. 

Then  though  I've  been  heedless  and  wayward, 

Be  not,  oh  Muse !   all  severe, 
If  I  may  not  sing  with  the  singers 

Let  me  still  the  singing  hear ! 
139 


Ad  Musam 

But  if  I'm  fall'n  deaf  to  that  music 
Let  the  winds  of  winter  rave 

And  the  snowdrifts  heap  upon  me, 
Hiding  a  merciful  grave ! 


140 


A    NEW    MAUD    MULLER 

MAUD  MULLER,  when  the  weather  is  fair, 

Hocks  all  day  in  her  rocking  chair ; 

While  round  her  on  the  verandah  floor 

Are  cheap  newspapers  by  the  score; 

And  books,  still  cheaper,  about  her  lie 

While  Maudie  watches  the  folks  go  by ; 

Just  moving  enough  to  'scape  the  sun, 

She  rocks  and  rocks  till  the  day  is  done, 

And  now  and  then,  keeping  time  to  her  swings, 

Some  fribble  from  some  flash  play  she  sings ; 

The  while  her  husband,  down  at  the  shop, 

Grimy  and  sweaty,  without  a  stop, 

Or  ever  a  breath  of  the  natural  air, 

Toils — to  keep  Maudie  in  her  chair, 

And  to  dress  her  up  in  the  clothes  she  loves, 

Ribbons  and  flounces  and  gauzes  and  gloves, 

And  rings  and  bracelets  and  such-like  stuff, 

Whereof  she  can  never  get  enough, 

And  a  wagonload  of  which  she  must  wear 

Before  she  can  rock  in  her  rocking  chair. 

141 


A  New  Maud  Muller 

He  toils  till  he's  weary  in  ev'ry  limb, 

But  Maudie,  she  wastes  no  pity  on  him, 

In  her  small  brain  there  is  but  one  shelf 

And  Maudie  fills  it  completely  herself ; 

Oh  !  she's  just  too  sweet,  when  togged  out  gaudy 

And  don't  you  forget  it,  she  knows  it,  does  Maudie ! 

When  I  see  Maudie  in  that  big  chair 

It  makes  me  so  mad  I  could  almost  swear ; 

I  think  of  the  husband  down  at  the  shop 

Watching  the  big  steam-hammer  drop, 

Toiling  and  moiling  the  whole  year  through, 

Doing  the  best  that  it's  in  him  to  do, 

Doggedly  drudging  through  foul  and  fair 

For  Maudie  and  that  old  rocking  chair, 

With  never  a  chance  any  headway  to  make, 

For  Maudie  can  neither  boil  nor  bake, 

The  "  hired  girl"  has  to  do  it  all 

And  she  must  be  paid,  and  that's  a  call 

Upon  his  poor  pocket  that  oughtn't  to  be, 

But  Maudie's  a  "  lady,"  don't  you  see? 

So  the  "  girl"  and  the  man  from  the  grocery  store 

Run  the  house  from  the  kitchen  door ; 
142 


A  New  Maud  Muller 

And  as  for  making  herself  a  dress, 

As  near  could  she  make  a  winning  guess 

At  the  Sphinx's  riddle  of  the  ancient  days — 

I  wonder  how  she  gets  on  her  stays ! 

And  so  the  dressmaker  has  to  come 

Too  often  to  that  misguided  home, 

And  when  she's  been  settled  with,  what  a  hole 

Has  been  made  in  the  little  weekly  "  roll !" 

But  still,  ungrieving,  he  drudges  away, 
This  ill-used  husband,  from  day  to  day, 
And  for  all  I  know  his  Maudie  he  loves 
Nor  grudges  the  bangles  and  rings  and  gloves 
Which  Maudie,  I  think,  loves  more  than  him ; 
(  Her  power  of  loving,  I  fear,  is  slim, 
Except  it  be  frippery,  frills  and  show, 
What  could  that  shallow  nature  know  ?  ) 
Oh !  how  it  would  look  on  his  hard  hands 
That  diamond  that  gleams  from  one  of  the  bands 
In  which  her  fingers  are  thickly  cased, 
(Though  this  is  the  only  one  not  paste). 
To  pay  for  it  long  will  keep  him  poor, 
But  Maudie  must  have  her  diamonds  for  sure ; 

143 


A  New  Maud  Muller 

No  matter  how  sorely  he's  distressed, 
Maudie  must  be  arrayed  in  the  best ; 
If  better-off  neighbors  get  this  or  that, 
Maudie  must  have  it,  that's  what's  what ! 


It's  a  mercy  he  isn't  overbright, 

Nor  sees  things  always  in  their  true  light ; 

If  he  saw  Maud  as  she's  seen  by  me 

Oh,  what  a  commotion  there  would  be ! 

How    Maud's    glad    clothes    would    get    into    her 

trunk — 

That  is,  if  the  man  had  a  bit  of  spunk — 
And  the  splinters  of  that  old  rocking  chair 
Should  fly,  first  thing,  through  the  frighten'd  air; 
Maudie  should  yank  that  diamond  off 
And  make  a  bee-line  for  the  kneading-trough; 
The  hired  girl  and  the  dressmaker  too 
Should  get  leave  of  absence,  p.  d.  q. ! 
She'd  think  she'd  encounter'd  the  Terrible  Turk, 
And  she'd  take  right  hold  and  get  down  to  work ; 
That's  what  you'd  do — you  hear  me  shout — 

Or  else,  dear  Maudie,  you'd  just  get  out! 

144 


A  New  Maud  Muller 

I  know  there  are  women  that  struggle  and  strive 

Their  useless  husbands  to  keep  alive ; 

That  stand  by  the  worthless  creatures  through 

All  failures,  as  only  a  woman  can  do ; 

For  e'en  turned  out  on  the  stony  streets 

The  heart  of  a  loyal  woman  beats 

For  the  wretch  that  broke  it  and  put  it  there — 

May  God  befriend  her  in  her  despair ! 

The  one  I  sing  of  is  not  that  kind, 

-Yet  thousands  of  such  are  easy  to  find ; 

But  of  these  I'll  tell  at  another  time — 

I  trust  it  will  be  in  a  fitting  rhyme — 

My  muse  for  the  present  has  done  her  share 

With  the  story  of  Maud  and  her  rocking  chair. 


10  116 


LONGING    FOR    SUMMER 

THE  sun  is  over  the  line 

And  he's  climbing  daily  higher, 
Bringing  the  months  that  are  mine 

And  the  days  of  my  desire. 

The  ice  is  gone  from  the  streams, 

The  crocus  is  on  the  lawn, 
I  hear  in  my  morning  dreams 

The  robins  piping  at  dawn. 

And  the  Easter  bells  ring  out 

And  the  church-folks  come  and  go ; 

Ah,  happy  are  they,  the  devout, 
Be  the  service  high  or  low ! 

Peal  loudly,  ye  Easter  bells ! 

Be  heard  by  the  farthest  sea ; 
But  spring  on  the  greening  fells 

Brings  a  dearer  joy  to  me. 

1A« 


146 


Longing  for  Summer 

Fair  are  they  beyond  belief 
The  maidens  in  proud  array, 

But  the  bud  and  the  opening  leaf 
Are  wondrous  to  me  as  they. 

Oh !  maidens  and  matrons  fair, 
I  ask,  as  I  watch  you  go, 

Is  it  Easter  or  this  soft  air 

Makes  your  happy  faces  glow? 

O'er  hamlet  and  crowded  street 
Are  the  bells  in  j  oyous  swing ; — 

Would  their  chiming  be  so  sweet 
Were  it  not  the  time  of  spring? 

Ah,  she  erred  not  in  the  least, 

The  wise  old  church — ne'er  fear- 
That  chose  for  her  chief est  feast 
The  bud-time  of  the  year ! 

Yet  not  for  herself  is  all 

The  love  that  for  spring  I  bear, 
Not  wholly  am  I  her  thrall 

Though  the  sheen  be  on  her  hair. 
147 


Longing  for  Summer 

Not  wholly  for  what  I  see 
Oh  Spring !  do  I  give  praise, 

But  I  know  that  you  bring  to  me 
Full  surely,  the  summer  days. 

The  days  when  I  lead  my  life 
When  I  leave  behind  the  mire, 

And  say  to  the  petty  strife 
And  the  little  cares — Retire  ! 

When  the  stillness  of  the  woods 
And  the  lake's  far-shining  shore 

Bring  the  silent,  happy  moods 
And  the  soul  is  found  once  more. 

Yet,  thankful  am  I,  oh  Spring ! 

To  have  seen  your  face  again, 
For  Time  with  me  is  a-wing, 

Full  soon  you'll  blossom  in  vain 

For  me ;  but  I  make  this  plea : 

Ere  I  rest  'neath  your  green  sod 
May  I  one  more  summer  see — 

If  that  be  pleasing  to  God. 
148 


Longing  for  Summer 

Then  shine  for  the  spring,  but  climb 
Oh  Sun !  still  daily  higher, 

And  hasten  the  summer  time 
And  the  days  of  my  desire ! 


140 


WIND    IS    GIVEN    TO    BLOWING 

ACROSS  the  fields  one  winter  day, 
When  I  was  young  and  lusty, 

I  to  my  true  love  took  my  way, 
The  snows  were  white  and  crusty. 

A  bitter  wind  blew  from  behind, 

It  drove  me  on  the  faster ; 
But  I,  I  laughed  at  cold  and  wind, 

Love  was  my  only  master. 

And  as  I  went  I  crooned  a  song, 
A  song  right  blythe  and  cheery, 

The  burden  was :  It  won't  be  long 
Till  I  am  with  my  dearie. 

Before  me  stretched  a  frozen  pond, 

Thus  to  be  stayed  I  hated ; 
And  who'd  go  round  when  just  beyond 

His  sweetheart  for  him  waited? 
150 


Wind  is  Given  to  Blowing 

As  light  I  felt  as  any  dove, 
I  thought  the  ice  was  bearing, 

I  wanted  so  to  kiss  my  love ! 
And  on  I  ventured,  daring. 

The  wind  behind  me  piped  amain, 
The  ice  was  smooth  and  willing; 

But  soon,  to  be  ashore  again, 
I'd  given  a  many  a  shilling! 

The  piping  wind  behind  me  blew, 

It  blew  me  as  it  listed ; 
Oh,  had  she  seen,  my  love  so  true, 

How  I  was  twirled  and  twisted ! 

It  drove  me  here,  it  drove  me  there, 
Like  lamb  driven  to  the  slaughter; 

Not  everywhere  the  ice  did  bear, 
Soon  I  was  in  the  water ! 

And  oh,  what  thoughts  in  that  chill  wave 
Then  through  my  brain  went  shooting ! 
Chill  was  the  wave,  but  I  was  brave — 

At  last  I  found  a  footing. 
151 


Wind  is  Given  to  Blowing 

And  dripping,  freezing,  on  I  went — 
No  song  I  now  was  humming ! 

Almost  with  fright  my  love  did  faint 
When  thus  she  saw  me  coming. 

But  soon,  with  her,  my  woes  wrere  past 
And  I  was  warm  and  cosy ; 

I  mocked  my  dangers,  till  at  last 
Her  cheeks  again  grew  rosy. 

But  ah!   she  said,  while  fondly  fain 

A  kiss  on  me  bestowing: 
Don't  venture  on  the  ice  again 

While  thus  the  wind  is  blowing ! 

Now  many  a  spring  and  many  a  fall 
Since  then  we've  been  together, 

But  often,  often,  we  recall 
That  day  of  wintry  weather. 

And  many  a  time  she's  held  me  back 

When  I  too  fast  was  going : — 
The  ice,  my  dear,  may  hide  a  crack — 

And  the  wind  is  given  to  blowing ! 
152 


STONY    ISLAND 

IN  these  long  winter  nights  when  winds  are  roaring, 

And  flinging  to  and  fro  the  groaning  trees, 
O'er  some  loved  book  I  like  to  sit  a-poring, 

Careless  of  drifted  snows  and  frozen  seas ; 
I  close  the  shutters  and  draw  down  the  curtain, 

And  stir  the  fire  until  it  sparkles  bright ; 
Wild  though  it  storm  without,  I'll  take  no  hurt  in 

My  room  so  full  of  warmth  and  cheerful  light. 

And  often,  weary  of  my  books  and  reading, 

I  wheel  me  closer  to  the  crackling  blaze, 
And  vacant  sit,  my  drowsy  fancy  feeding 

With  thoughts  of  other  times  and  better  days ; 
And  while  the  bitter  blasts  outside  are  swishing, 

Snarling  and  growling  at  the  flying  flake, 
I  dream  of  smiling  skies  and  summer  fishing, 

And  Stony  Island  in  the  shining  lake. 

No  special  beauty  has  this  Stony  Island, 
Unknown  to  fame  it  sits  amid  the  waves ; 

No  vine-clad  slopes  or  cloudy  regions  highland, 
No  tow'ring  cliffs  hung  over  thundering  caves ; 
153 


Stony  Island 

It  neither  hard  to  reach  nor  far  removed  is, 

Yet  oft  I  ponder  in  this  easy-chair ; 
Of  all  my  little  wealth  the  best  beloved  is 

The  mem'ry  of  the  days  I've  lived  up  there. 

The  days  I  there  have  lived !   for  that  was  living ; 

Light  moved  my  feet  upon  that  sunlit  shore, 
While  Nature's  ready  hand  was  gladly  giving 

Welcome  and  holding  wide  her  open  door ; 
Escaped  from  business  cares  and  city  noises, 

From  all  the  turmoil  and  the  deadly  haste ; 
No  longer  dulled  by  ledgers  and  invoices, 

And  all  the  things  that  make  of  life  a  waste. 

In  every  human  heart  a  Poet  dwelleth, 

Though  unsuspected  in  our  common  moods ; 

And  where's  the  book  from  out  whose  pages  welleth 
Such  music  as  is  heard  amid  the  woods, 

Or  on  the  waters? — still  from  rift  and  fissure 
The  ceaseless  pipes  of  Pan  are  heard  to  blow ; 

And,  Stony  !  I  must  think  'twas  not  the  Fisher, 

It  was  the  Poet  in  me  loved  thee  so. 
154 


Stony  Island 

And  musing  here,  I  think  of  those  departed, 

Companions  there  of  many  a  genial  hour, 
Old  friends  beloved ;  and  I  grow  tender-hearted, 

Yet  bow  me  duly  to  the  omniscient  Power 
That  took  them  from  me ;    these  rude  winds  are 
crying 

Above  their  graves,  those  sharers  of  my  mirth. 
Meseems,  as  still  the  years  go  faster  flying 

I  love  them  more  than  when  they  dwelt  on  earth. 

Ah !  oft  at  Stony  do  I  feel  them  near  me, 

I  hear  their  whisperings,  and  happy  tears 
Spring  to  my  eyes,  and  loving  fancies  cheer  me, 

Rise  in  my  breast  and  banish  doubts  and  fears ; 
Companions  of  my  prime !  when  I  remember 

Those  summer  days  my  thoughts  are  sanctified ; 
And  gladly  do  I  hail  Life's  bleak  December 

That  some  day  soon  shall  bring  me  to  your  side. 

And  let  it  be  at  Stony,  our  reunion ; 

Await  me  surely  by  that  winding  shore ; 
There  let  my  spirit  join  you  in  communion 

Sweeter  than  any  that  we  knew  before ; 
155 


Stony  Island 

In  boundless  space  permitted  to  be  vagrant, 
With  marvels  new  and  strange  on  ev'ry  hand, 

No  earthly  mem'ries  shall  be  half  so  fragrant 
As  those  that  rise  to  us  from  Stony's  strand. 

The  boats  will  come  and  go  with  laughing  fishers, 

Our  followers  in  the  joyous  pastimes  there; 
Unweeting  all  of  us,  their  fond  well-wishers 

Hov'ring  above  them  in  the  upper  air ; 
And  that  no  happening  come  to  them  distressful 

This  shall  we  hope ;   and  with  delight  we'll  see 
Each  in  his  pleasant  toiling  still  successful 

And  happy  there,  as  once  we  used  to  be  ! 


156 


TO    C.  H.  M.  AT    STONY    ISLAND 

"  When  other  hearts  and  other  lips 
Their  tales  of  love  shall  tell." 

WHEN,  straining  on  the  quivering  line, 

The  gamey  bass  pulls  hard, 
And  you  with  wary  touch  and  fine 

His  rushes  fierce  retard; 
Or  when  the  fish  in  some  wild  dash 

His  freedom  gets  again, 
And  you  with  stormful  words  and  rash 

Affright  the  peaceful  main ; 

At  such  a  time,  full  well  I  know 

'Tis  not  of  me  you'd  think ; 
The  only  thing  to  ease  such  woe 

Is — cuss  and  take  a  drink ! 
But  when  the  game  is  in  the  net 

And  you  again  breathe  free 
As  joyfully  your  throat  you  wet 

Then  you'll  remember  me ! 
157 


To  C.  H.  M.  at  Stony  Island 

When  open  the  "  piano"  stands 

The  keys  in  glistening  rows, 
And  to  the  touch  of  practiced  hands 

The  gurgling  music  flows ; 
In  mem'ry's  sunshine  then  to  bask 

And  not  forgotten  be ; 
Oh,  that's  the  time !  'tis  then  I  ask 

That  you'll  remember  me ! 


158 


FISHING    JOYS 

WHEN  I  to  my  fishing  days  look  back 
I  remember  some  that  were  glorious ; 

No  thing  to  my  perfect  peace  did  lack ; 
I  felt  like  a  hero  victorious. 

With  summer  smiling  on  shores  and  seas, 
And  ev'rything  just  to  my  wishing; 

A  warm  bright  day  and  a  gentle  breeze 
To  ruffle  the  water  for  fishing. 

Jocund  was  I  then  and  light  of  heart, 
Though  scarcely  I  knew  the  reason ; 

Pan's  spirit  caught  me  and  made  me  part, 
Unaware,  of  the  shining  season. 

The  bass  bit  freely,  the  sport  I  like ! 

Of  fishing  I  had  my  fill  then ; 
I  knew  when  to  play  and  when  to  strike, 

And  proud  was  I  of  my  skill  then. 
159 


Fishing  Joys 

No  king  on  his  throne  so  blest  as  I, 

All  care  to  the  breezes  giving : 
Lifting  my  face  to  the  sunny  sky, 

And  happy  that  I  was  living ! 

And  oft  as  the  fish  bit  fierce  and  wild, 
My  line  through  the  water  swishing, 

I  would  shout  for  glee  like  a  very  child ; 
Oh,  that  was  the  joy  of  fishing ! 

But  the  luck  not  always  ran  that  way ; 

I  remember  days  of  despairing ; 
When  things  went  wrong  the  livelong  day ; 

I  smile  when  I  think  of  the  swearing ! 

I  mind  me  of  days,  long  days  ill-starred, 
When  the  Fates  were  hostile  clearly ; 

Shoal  after  shoal  you  fished  right  hard, 
But  the  bass  held  aloof  severely. 

Or  struck  you,  perchance,  at  evening's  edge, 

The  sun,  say,  ten  minutes  under ; 
And  your  hook  got  caught  on  that  old  ledge, 

And  the  fish  just  coming  like  thunder! 
160 


Fishing  Joys 

Darkness  at  hand ;   those  infernal  rocks 

Holding  like  death  to  your  leader, 
The  while  your  comrade  heaps  the  box ; 

Imagine  the  case,  oh  reader ! 

I've  seen  when  the  fish  were  biting  well, 

.And  you  felt  you  were  doing  nobly, 
The  restless  lake  would  begin  to  swell, 
Your  skiff  to  pitch  and  grow  wobbly. 

The  wind  rose  up  and  the  waters  too, 

The  rain  came  helter-skelter ; 
Up  went  the  anchor,  and  off  you  flew 

Drenched,  to  the  nearest  shelter. 

So  lately  asleep,  the  waters  woke, 

Looked  round  them  and  doffed  their  nightcaps ; 
Leaped  at  the  gale  and  their  anger  spoke 

Through  teeth  of  a  million  white-caps ! 

And  sometimes,  too,  when  the  lake  was  still, 

Its  clearness  the  eye  delighting, 
You  found  your  fish,  but  with  all  your  skill 

You  could  not  get  them  to  biting. 
11  161 


Fishing'  Joys 

They  were  surely  there ;   your  close-watched  bait 
You  could  feel  them  nibbling  lightly ; 

But  you  struck  too  soon  or  struck  too  late, 
You  could  not  time  them  rightly. 

Or  if  you  did  it  was  all  the  same ; 

Your  line  went  snarling  and  kinking, 
Caught  in  the  guides  and  lost  your  game, 

And  you  just  felt  like  sinking 

The  whole  blamed  outfit  in  the  lake, 

All  fishing  a  humbug  styling, 
Only  a  fraud  and  a  first-class  fake, 

Denouncing  your  luck  and  reviling ! 

Your  line  now  free,  again  you  essayed 

The  art  some  call  by  misnomer 
Gentle;    so  skillful  the  casts  you  made, 

Soon  you  were  fast  to  a  "  comber." 

"  Aha !"  you  said,  "  this  is  better,"  your  pet 

In  a  twinkling  dismissed  and  banished ; 
Alas !  as  the  big  one  reached  the  net 

He  got  off  somehow  and  vanished ! 
162 


Fishing  Joys 

You  didn't  swear !  neither  verb  nor  noun 
You  mangled  and  gave  to  slaughter ; 

But  the  words  you  choked  and  swallowed  down 
Would  have  scorched  a  hole  in  the  water. 

And  as  you  sat  there  in  that  sweet  mind 

Belike  some  crony  drew  near  you, 
And  saw  your  state  and  with  jests  unkind 

Began  to  gibe  and  to  jeer  you. 

With  anger  almost  it  made  you  sob ; 

How  you  longed  in  plainness  to  tell  him, 
Your  thoughts  of  him;   you'd  have  liked  the  job 

With  a  huge  poleax  to  fell  him ! 

Laugh  not,  oh,  reader !  while  I  recite 

A  fisherman's  sad  mischances ; 
They're  hard  to  bear  just  when  they  bite, 

The  points  of  those  keen  lances  ! 

Even  I,  a  placid  and  gentle  knight 

Of  the  rod,  not  given  to  whimper, 
Have  sometimes  fairly  lost  the  fight 

In  a  battle  with  my  temper. 
163 


Fishing  Joys 

I  have  longed  sometimes  to  quit  the  boat 
And,  landing  for  safe  isolation, 

Rail  at  all  things  ashore  or  afloat 
And  blaspheme  the  whole  creation  ! 

Sweet  is  the  lot  of  the  fishing  tribe, 

Cheery  their  shouts  and  their  laughter; 

And  pleasant  the  things  that  I  describe — 
To  think  of  a  twelve  months  after ! 

But  trouble  comes  to  all  sons  of  earth ; 

Their  pleasures  the  more  endearing ; 
Oh,  reader !  what  would  fishing  be  worth 

If  it  gave  no  matter  for  swearing ! 

And  what  would  this  mortal  life  be  worth ; 

What  should  the  sun  give  us  light  for, 
If  there  wasn't  sorrow  as  well  as  mirth, 

And  always  something  to  fight  for? 

No  stream  gets  down  to  the  sea  unvexed ; 

Over  bars  and  shallows  it's  driven ; 
And  often  I  ask  myself,  perplexed, 

Can  there  be  any  fishing  in  Heaven? 
164 


Fishing  Joys 

Can  sudden  tempests  and  seething  squalls 
That  tumble  you  shoreward  flying : 

Can  clouds  that  open  in  waterfalls 
While  deep  unto  deep  is  crying : 

Can  kinking  lines  and  tackle  unsound, 
And  troubles  that  come  in  legions 

To  anglers  on  earth — can  these  be  found 
There  in  the  celestial  regions  ? 

Alas !  I  fear  not ;  and  I  grow  sad, 

For  all  my  experience  teaches 
No  fisherman  could  be  truly  glad 

Where  there  could  not  be  any  breaches 

Of  the  law  that  tells  you :  you  shall  not  swear 
Nor  give  ear  to  motions  distressful 

Of  an  angry  spirit ;   for  who  would  care 
To  fish,  were  he  always  successful? 

Had  you  ev'ry  venture  your  utmost  wish, 
And  you  weren't  backward  at  wishing : 
Never  broke  your  tackle,  nor  lost  your  fish, 

Where  were  the  joy  of  fishing? 
165 


Fishing  Joys 

Sure,  the  angler's  sport  is  an  image  of  life, 
Steep  highland  it  has  and  meadow, 

Its  pleasant  days  and  its  days  all  rife 
Both  with  sunshine  and  with  shadow. 

And  when  memory  broods  in  her  mellow  light 
O'er  the  checker'd  days  you  had  once, 

It's  not  easy  to  tell,  as  they  shimmer  bright, 
The  happy  hours  from  the  sad  ones. 

And  when  I  look  back  to  the  fishing  I've  had, 
I'll  say,  though  it  may  sound  daring, 

I  can't  help  feeling  half  way  glad 

When  I  think  of  the  wrath  and  the  swearing 


160 


TO   G.  S.  L.  AT   NARRAGANSETT    PIER 

AT  Narragansett  Pier 
The  price  would  be  too  dear, 
With  too  much  style  and  fuss 
For  this  plebeian  cuss. 

Maybe  'twould  do  him  good, 
Perhaps  he'd  be  less  crude, 
And  less  a  daily  sinner 
With  daily  dress  for  dinner. 

For  now  the  thin  veneer 
He's  picked  up  here  and  there, 
Wears  off  through  stress  and  strain, 
And  shows  the  native  grain. 

For  such  high  life  too  crass, 
He  much  misdoubts,  alas  ! 
In  him  will  always  dwell 
The  Scot  unspeakab-el ! 
167 


To  G.  S.  L.  at  Xarragansett  Pier 

Though  somewhat  polyglot, 

A  rough,  unruly  Scot, 

A  rustic  at  the  core, 

Whom  dainty  things  but  bore. 

Held  fast  to  the  degree 
Imposed  by  destiny ; 
As  day  and  hour  grow  ripe, 
Reverting  to  the  type. 

I'd  like  to  see  the  girls, 
Round  whom  the  breaker  curls, 
As  if  it  fain  would  kiss 
Each  buxom,  rosy  Miss. 

But  such  a  charming  sight 
Would  bring  but  short  delight, 
And  make  me  feel  at  last 
That  my  poor  day  is  past. 

So  I'll  take  up  my  rod 

And  seek  the  paths  I've  trod, 

And  show  my  ankles  bony 

Unto  the  waves  at  Stony. 
168 


To  G.  S.  L.  at  Narragansett  Pier 

Where  I  can  fish  and  swear, 
With  no  one  near  to  care, 
Or  heed  me  if  I  yell 
Out  things  I  dare  not  spell, 

When  some  confounded  fish 
Has  balked  me  of  my  wish, 
And  will  not  show  a  fin 
Because  I  "  horsed  him  in," 

And  where,  before  I'm  up, 
O'Neill  comes  with  his  cup — 
Ye  Gods !   how  good  it  feels 
That  cocktail  of  O'Neill's  ! 

And  where  old  John  will  wink 
And  say:  "  Will,  don't  you  think ?"- 
The  rest  you  can  suppose, 
Or  else  your  senses  doze. 

I've  heard  of  speakers  grand 
Whose  fame  has  filled  the  land, 
Of  Webster  and  of  Clay 

Both  great  men  in  their  day ; — 
169 


To  G.  S.  L.  at  Narragansett  Pier 

For  all  their  eloquence 

I  would  not  give  three  pence. 

I'd  rather,  when  I'm  dry, 

A  wink  from  John  Brown's  eye. 

So  Narragansett  Pier, 
You'll  see  me  not,  I  fear, 
Your  beach  and  salty  sea 
In  vain  will  wait  for  me. 

I'll  go  where  I  belong ; 
No  polo  or  ping-pong 
'Round  Stony  Island's  shoals — 
But  some  congenial  souls. 

Old  fogies  whom  I  like, 
Who've  trailed  the  dusty  pike 
Of  life  with  me  for  years, 
And  whom  the  Past  endears. 

And,  George,  if  you  should  join, 
We'll  recognize  your  coin, 
And  take  you  by  the  hand 

And  make  you  of  the  band. 
170 


To  G.  S.  L.  at  Narragansett  Pier 

And  though  you've  grown  so  good, 
To  say  it  may  seem  rude, 
We'll  venture  on  the  brink, 
And  sometimes  at  you  wink. 

And  if  you've  got  so  fine 
As  to  disdain  that  sign, 
Pray  keep  yourself,  my  dear, 
At  Narragansett  Pier. 

But  if  you'd  like  to  please 
The  friend  that  sends  you  these, 
Your  old  and  loving  crony, 
Pack  up  and  come  to  Stony ! 


1T1 


THE    BIG    BLACK    DOG 

"  I  there  wi'  something  did  forgither 
That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither." 

— BCRNS. 

THE  Colonel  was  trudging  homeward  late 
And  he  had  on  board  a  most  noble  freight, 

Yet  to  call  for  a  cab  he  was  scorning ; 
He'd  been  out  with  the  BOYS  and  had  had  a  good 

time 
And  was  now  toddling  home  as  the  church-clock's 

chime 
Struck  a  wee  sma'  hour  of  the  morning. 

The  sidewalk  rose  and  again  it  fell, 

Like  a  bough  in  a  breeze  or  a  sea  in  a  swell, 

A  thing  at  such  times  most  muddling ; 
It  would  roll  and  wabble  and  undulate, 
But  the  Colonel  would  brace  himself  calmly  and 

wait 
Until  once  more  it  had  settled  down  straight, 

And  then  he  resumed  his  toddling. 
172 


The  Big  Black  Dog 

When  lo  !  of  a  sudden,  right  there  in  the  street, 
So  near  it  almost  seemed  at  his  feet, 

A  something  rose  up  frightful, 
A  BIG  BLACK  DOG,  with  big  white  fangs 
And  eyes  that  would  curl  all  your  hair  into  bangs, 

So  savage  they  glittered  and  spiteful ! 

Yes !  of  all  the  dogs  that  ever  were  seen 

By  the  day's  full  light  or  the  moon's  pale  sheen 

This  monster  o'ermatched  them  vastly ; 
There  ne'er  was  a  Dog  so  Big  and  so  Black 
As  he  fronted  the  Colonel  there  in  the  track, 

With  his  wolf-fangs  gleaming  ghastly ! 

The  Colonel  smiled  and  said  he :  "  Good  Doggie, 
I'm  a  little  late  and  a  little  groggy" ; 

But  the  Black  Dog's  jaws  were  quivering ; 
Friends  with  the  Colonel  he  would  not  be, 
Fiercely  he  snarled,  and  the  Colonel,  he 

Fell  all  a-shaking  and  shivering, 

Whiter  he  grew  than  a  graveyard  ghost, 
The  grog  that  was  in  him  froze  solid  almost, 

He  had  ice  formations  internal ; 
173 


The  Big  Black  Dog 

He  dodged  and  he  plunged  and  he  well-nigh  fell, 
But  at  last  he  got  by,  and  with  one  wild  yell 
He  lit  out  for  home,  did  the  Colonel ! 

And  Oh,  how  he  went !   looking  never  behind, 
Driving  before  him  a  little  wind 

Till  the  gas  jets  wavered  and  flickered ; 
The  leaves  flew  up  and  the  small  twigs  too, 
And  the  dust  that  he  raised  almost  hid  him  from 
view; 

For  the  Colonel  was  making  a  record  ! 

And  when  he  got  home  he  fell  down  prone 
At  his  own  front  door  with  a  gurgling  groan, 

And  he  called  on  the  Powers  Supernal ; 
"  Keep  away  that  Dog,  keep  him  off,  I  implore, 
And  I'll  never  stay  out  so  late  any  more" ; — 
But    the    Dog    had    abandoned    the    chase    long 
before : — 

He  couldn't  keep  up  with  the  Colonel ! 

At  last  he  arose  and  crawled  to  his  bed, 
With  every  nodule  of  brain  in  his  head 
Thumping  and  throbbing  and  burning; 
174 


The  Big  Black  Dog 

Not  for  a  moment  sleep  could  he 
But  he  lay  there  and  'rastled  with  OLD  R.  E. 
Until  broad  daylight  in  the  morning. 

Now,  all  ye  topers  who  stay  out  late 
Give  ear  to  the  history  I  here  state, 

And  refrain  from  jeering  and  scorning; 
Keep  away  from  your  cups  and  your  kings  and 

queens, 

And  go  home  to  your  waiting  wives  and  your  weans, 
Or  you'll  find  what  to  meet  a  BLACK  DOG  means 

In  the  wee  sma'  hours  of  the  morning ! 

You'll  meet,  as  you  toddle  belated  home 
Things  that  will  scare  you  for  years  to  come, 

Things  awful,  frightful,  infernal; 
And  there's  sure  to  be  there,  put  it  down  in  your 

log, 

If  you  don't  mend  your  ways,  that  terrible  Dog, 
That  wild-eyed,  wolf-fanged  Big  Black  Dog 
That  wanted  to  chaw  up  the  Colonel ! 


IT* 


THAT  SUNDAY  MORNING  MACKEREL 

THE  Colonel  is  a  famous  man ;    in  build  he's  short 

and  stout, 
And  when  it  comes  to  meat  and  drink — Oh  my,  how 

he's  dug  out ! 
If  you  could  but  the  victuals  see  of  whicli  he  can 

dispose 
You'd  think  there  nothing  was  in  him  but  room 

clear  to  his  toes ; 
You'd  say  that  to  his  knees  at  least  he  should  extend 

his  vest, — 
And  every   Sunday  morning  the  Colonel's  at  his 

best. 

Right  well   he  knows  a  bill   of   fare — no  random 

feeder  he ! 
And  down  the  list  with  loving  care  he  goes  from 

A  to  Z; 
He  picks  the  dainties  deftly  out,  tells  how  they  must 

be  served, 
And  wo  betide  the  waiter  wight  who  from  that  law 

has  swerved ! 

1T6 


That  Sunday  Morning  Mackerel 

But  ev'ry  Sunday  morning  there's  just  one  dish  can 

spell 
The  Colonel's  perfect  earthly  bliss — a  boiled  salt 

macker-el ! 


Oh!  could  you  hear  him  once  describe  the  glories 
of  that  dish, 

And  how  he  strove  and  struggled  with  that  succu 
lent  salt  fish! 

And  how  that  "  thick  fat  belly  part"  he  sucked  and 
schlucked  it  in, 

'Twould  bring  the  water  from  your  mouth  a-trick- 
ling  down  your  chin ; 

Had  you  just  from  the  table  come  'twould  make 
you  hungry  feel 

To  hear  the  Colonel  tell  about  that  Sunday  morning 
meal! 

And  when  he  comes  down  town  at  noon,  then  'tis  a 

sight  to  see 
The  Colonel's  rosy  countenance — but  what  a  thirst 

has  he! 
13  177 


That  Sunday  Morning  Mackerel 

To  get  his  papers  and  his  mail,  that's  why,  he  says, 

he  came, 
But  we  that  know  the  Colonel  are  posted  on  the 

game; 
The  paper  talk  is  all  a  bluff — Oh  don't  we  know  it 

well, 
He's  only  come  down  town  once  more  to  drown  that 

macker-el ! 


Oh!  what  a  battle  then  ensues,  and  how  that  fish 
will  swim, 

And  how  the  Colonel  fights  it  out  and  won't  be  beat 
by  him ! 

"  I'll  smother  him  before  I  quit,  I'll  make  him  cease 
to  flop 

"  If  it  takes  the  very  last  highball  in  all  the  bloom 
ing  shop;" 

And  then  he  glances  proudly  round,  like  a  teacher 
'mid  his  scholars ; 

"  I've  got  a  thirst  on  me,"  he  says,  "  that's  worth 

a  million  dollars !" 
178 


That  Sunday  Morning  Mackerel 

Sure  it  must  be  a  huge  delight  to  be  a  millionaire, 
Or  do  the  heaped-up  coffers  bring  sometimes  but  toil 

and  care? 
I've  heard  of  one  with  forty  men  to  clip  his  coupons 

off 
The  while  himself  was  fed  on  milk ;  at  such  delights 

I  scoff! 
And  one  who  for  his  treasures  vast  an  outlet  has 

to  seek 
By  giving  libraries  away  a  dozen  times  a  week ; — 

But  all  the  wealth  of  all  the  Goulds  and  Vanderbilts 

combined 
And  all  the  other  money-kings  is  nothing  to  my 

mind; 
There  is  a  joy  that's  greater  far  than  any  they  can 

know, 
And  any  Sunday,  just  at  noon,  that  joy  to  you 

I'll  show; 
It  fills  the  Colonel  with  content  until  you'd  think 

he'd  burst 
And  it's  just  one  boiled  salt  mackerel — with  its 

resulting  thirst ! 

1T9 


That  Sunday  Morning  Mackerel 

The  raptures  to  the  Colonel  known  o'er  that  long 
morning  meal, 

There  may  be  here  and  there  a  man  those  raptures 
too  could  feel, 

But  for  that  second  course  at  noon,  that  hour  with 
out  alloy, 

There's  only  one  could  draw  from  that  its  full,  its 
utter  joy; 

I'd  like  to  see  all  friends  of  mine, — it  is  my  warmest 
wish, 

Triumphant  as  the  Colonel  is  while  drowning  out 
that  fish ! 


180 


ON  A  LATELY  DECEASED  MILLIONAIRE 

HE  left  a  large  estate,  they  say, 
Four  millions  full,  they  make  it, 

He  left  it  all  behind,  because 
He  could  not  with  him  take  it. 

He  spent  his  days,  almost  his  nights, 

In  heaping  it  together, 
And  when  he  saw  the  pile  increase 

Then  he  was  in  high  feather. 

From  early  youth  till  grim  King  Death 
Brought  forth  his  iron  collar, 

He  gave  no  thought  to  anything 
Save  the  Almighty  Dollar. 

And  he  succeeded ;  'tis  allowed 

By  up-to-date  civilians, 
The  one  success  that  is  success 

These  days,  is  making  millions. 
181 


On  a  Lately  Deceased  Millionaire 

And  in  this  human  life  of  ours 
The  law  is  of  the  sternest ; 

You'll  not  get  what  you  want  unless 
You  want  it  in  dead  earnest. 

And  he  "  won  out" ;   pardon,  if  I 
Ring  in  the  modern  jargon ; 

He  gave  his  life  for  what  he  got, 
And  deemed  he  got  a  bargain. 

The  only  life  he  e'er  may  have, 
(  Forgive  me,  oh  ye  preachers  ! ) 

He  paid  it  for  that  heap  of  gold 
And  happiest  was  of  creatures. 

And  why  should  we  condemn  and  say 
That  this  and  that  to  blame  is ; 

He  was  indeed  a  happy  man ; 
Each  man  of  single  aim  is. 

The  life  he  led  his  measure  filled, 

It  pleased  him  so  to  lead  it, 
And  I  would  count  him  fortunate 

Even  had  he  not  succeeded. 

182 


On  a  Lately  Deceased  Millionaire 

Not  for  the  game  he  got  would  I 
Approving  flags  be  flaunting, 

But  for  the  pleasure  and  the  joy 
He  had  while  at  the  hunting. 

Oh !  wretched  are  the  mortals  who 
Half -willing  yet  half -will  not ! 

The  goal  so  sought  they  never  reach, 
The  promised  land  they  till  not. 

I  know  your  verdict,  reader  mine ! 

'Tis  thus  'twill  be  recorded : 
A  life  like  that  was  void  and  vain, 

All  barren,  mean  and  sordid. 

The  April  buds,  May's  blossom  sweet, 
Her  air  with  perfume  laden, 

The  throned  June,  by  whom  the  earth 
All  glory  is  arrayed  in : 

Rich  autumn's  fields,  the  winter  snows 

White  in  the  starlight  sparkling, 
The  moaning  winds,  the  rolling  seas 

'Neath  sullen  skies  far  darkling ; 
183 


On  a  Lately  Deceased  Millionaire 

The  Universe's  mystery ! 

The  awful  whence  and  whither: — 
All  these  were  naught  to  him ;  he  raked 

And  scraped  his  gold  together. 

Why  blame  because  he  saw  them  not  ? 

Reader,  my  thought  agree  with ! 
When  that  which  sent  him  into  life 

Gave  him  no  eye  to  see  with? 

He  was  no  poet,  saint  or  sage, 
No  blood-stained  empire-shaker ; 

He  trod  the  path  laid  out  for  him 
A  common  moneymaker ! 

Nor  let  us  scorn  his  years  of  toil, 

His  unrelenting  labors 
Impossible  to  you  and  me, 

His  easy-going  neighbors. 

And  while  the  meed  of  worth  and  praise 

Unto  his  aims  refusing ; — 
Perchance,  as  said  or  sung,  those  aims 

Were  not  of  his  own  choosing ! 
184 


On  a  Lately  Deceased  Millionaire 

And  since  it's  ta'en  him  round  the  bend, 
The  coach  with  pale  postillions, 

Who  knows  but  fruits  beneficent 
May  yet  come  of  his  millions  ? 

And  for  his  future  have  no  fear ; 

On  that  serene  my  trust  is : 
The  power  that  made  him  what  he  was 

Will  grant  him  equal  justice ! 


185 


TO    JOHN    L.  KING 

JOHN  KING,  my  dearest  joe,  John, 

When  first  we  met  wi'  you 
A  glint  o'  nature's  sunshine 

Lay  on  your  bonnie  broo ; 
Your  lauch  was  music  then,  John, 

Your  e'e  had  sic  a  glow, 
We  couldna  help  but  like  ye  weel, 

John  King,  my  dearest  joe! 

John  King,  my  dearest  joe,  John, 

Through  mony  a  hearty  year 
We  used  tae  meet  ye  aften,  John, 

And  aye  we  had  sic  cheer ! 
And  when  ye  gaed  awa',  John, 

The  time  grew  dull  and  slow, 
And  heavy  hung  till  you  cam'  back, 

John  King,  my  dearest  joe. 

John  King,  my  dearest  joe,  John, 

They  say  you  have  reformed, 
186 


To  John  L.  King 

And  banished  a'  the  lovin'  f reends 
Whase  hearts  sae  aft  ye  charmed ; 

And  now  they  never  see  ye,  John, 
Which  fills  their  breists  wi'  woe ; — 

Whatever  made  ye  get  sae  guid, 
John  King,  my  dearest  joe? 

John  King,  my  dearest  joe,  John, 

Wi'  you  we're  weel  acquaint ; 
Ye  may  mak'  oot  tae  spoil  a  man, 

But  ne'er  will  mak'  a  saint ; 
Your  halo  disna  fit  ye,  John, 

Your  wings  will  never  grow ; — 
Come  back,  and  be  yersel'  again 

John  King,  my  dearest  joe ! 

Ay  !  let  the  sunshine  glint  ance  mair 

Upon  that  open  broo, 
And  join  the  lads  ye  liked  sae  weel, 

The  lads  sae  fond  o'  you ! 
Come !  heid  the  table  ance  again 

And  lat  the  "  wee  drap"  flow, 
And  be  the  JACK  YE  USED  TO  BE, 

John  King,  my  dearest  joe  ! 

187 


THE  TURNING-DOWN  OF  SMITHIE 

OH  !  bitter  were  the  fights  we  had 

And  sorely  were  we  tested, 
And  sometimes  we  came  out  ahead 

And  sometimes  we  were  bested ; 
And  ranged  in  battle-order  due 

Of  all  our  warriors  pithy, 
Of  all  our  captains  stout  and  true 

The  bravest  still  was  Smithie  ! 

Oft  when  at  combat's  close  we  were 

Our  doubtful  fate  descrying 
We  always  found  one  rampart  where 

Our  flag  supreme  was  flying ; 
Above  the  smoke  of  strife  still  hot 

Where  airs  victorious  fanned  her, 
And  that  was  sure  to  be  the  spot 

Where  Smithie  was  commander ! 

Though  elsewhere  oft  our  forces  quailed 

And  our  campaigns  miscarried 

188 


The  Turning-down  of  Smithie 

There  never  yet  was  plan  that  failed 
Where  Smithie's  lines  stood  serried; 

No  fierce  assault  could  him  affright 
No  vaunting  foe  confound  him, 

The  harder  he  made  Smithie  fight 
The  surer  Smithie  downed  him ! 

There  came  a  time  at  length  when  we 

Who  Smithie's  deeds  had  noted 
Went  to  the  General's  tent  with  plea 

That  he  might  be  promoted ; 
So  many  times  he'd  proven  true 

It  was  our  simple  notion 
Advancement  was  his  proper  due, 

That  he  had  earned  promotion. 

And  this  the  answer  that  we  got, 
Our  hopes,  our  wishes  blighting, 

No  wonder  that  our  breaths  we  caught 
And  thought  of  all  our  fighting ! 

It  fell  on  our  petitioning  squad 
Like  strokes  upon  a  stithy : — 

"  'Twould  make  our  friends,  the  en'my,  mad, 

Promotion  given  to  Smithie !" 
189 


The  Turning-down  of  Smithie 

Oh,  what  a  reason  now  is  this, 

Turn  down  the  man  that's  friendly, 
Lest  it  displease  your  enemies 

If  you  should  use  him  kindly, 
And  turn  your  faithful  friend  away 

Lest  foes  perchance  should  flout  you, 
And  men  who've  tried  to  crush  you  say 

Unpleasant  things  about  you? 

Yet  thus,  in  household  of  his  friends, 

Brave  Smithie  was  entreated, 
In  fighting  so  to  serve  their  ends 

Himself  he  had  defeated ; — 
But  oh,  it  gives  the  heart  a  stitch 

To  be  by  them  rejected 
For  whom  you've  done  the  things  for  which 

You  may  not  be  selected ! 


190 


ON  SEEING  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  FOR 
MER  ACQUAINTANCE  NOTED  FOR 
HIS  "GUID  CONCEIT  O'  HIMSELV 

THOUGH  framed  on  no  uncommon  plan, 
And  touched  with  no  divine  afflatus, 

Behold  the  picture  of  a  man 

Who  deemed  himself  no  small  potatoes. 

Oh !  better  never  to  be  born, 

And  ne'er  to  enter  Time's  dominion, 

Than  creep  through  life  from  morn  to  morn 
Unblest  with  your  own  good  opinion ! 

But  he  that  from  this  canvas  looks, 
By  no  misgiving  was  tormented, 

Howe'er  he  stood  in  others'  books, 
He  with  himself  was  still  contented. 

Yet  sometimes,  since  I  knew  it  well, 

The  merit  he  so  little  doubted, 
I  wonder  whether  it  befell, 

He  had  to  change  his  mind  about  it? 
191 


Portrait  of  a  Former  Acquaintance 

Oh !  many  a  one  through  life  has  passed — 
At  least  this  is  the  guess  I'm  making — 

Whose  airy  castles  at  the  last 

Found  earthquakes  ev'ry  buttress  shaking. 

I  mark  that  smirk,  and  I  recall 

The  daily  mood  of  him  that  wore  it ; — 

I'd  take  my  chances  of  the  fall 

For  his  long  self-content  before  it ! 

Whate'er  your  purpose,  Power  Supreme, 
What  fate  hereafter  may  await  us, 

Grant  that  on  earth  we  ne'er  may  dream 
We're  anything  but  big  potatoes ! 


192 


ALCOHOL    AND    NICOTINE 

(CUM    GRAND    SALIs!) 

ALCOHOL  and  Nicotine, 
Brain-besotting  king  and  queen  ! 
Many  a  day  I  dwelt  with  you, 
Long  was  I  your  subject  true, 
Easily  was  I  controlled, 
Firm  and  constant  was  your  hold 
Over  this  poor  wight,  until 
Scarce  he  knew  he  had  a  will ; 
Blindly  following  like  a  mole 
Nicotine  and  Alcohol ! 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 
False  assassins  of  the  soul! 
I  have  heard  your  praises  sung, 
Read  them  too  in  many  a  tongue ; 
Of  the  bliss  a  pipe  can  bring, 
How  the  bowl  makes  man  to  sing, 
13  193 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

Drowns  his  troubles  and  his  cares, 
Makes  them  seem  but  small  affairs, 
Warding  wounds  that  else  were  keen, 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine. 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine, 

Murd'rers  with  a  jocund  mien! 

Oft  in  sacrifice  to  you 

I  have  sat  where  air  was  blue, 

And  the  wine  like  water  poured 

Round  the  stained  and  boist'rous  board, 

Till  forgot  the  maundering  man 

Where  he  left  off,  where  began ; — 

You  forgot  not  your  due  toll, 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol ! 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 
Leaders  to  a  stormy  goal ! 
Witherers  of  the  golden  grain 
Fruitage  of  the  ripening  brain, 
Lying  curers  of  the  sorrow 

That  will  double  be  to-morrow, 
194 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

Dangerous  single,  and  combined, 
Blasters  of  the  better  mind : — 
But  for  you  what  some  had  been, 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine ! 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine, 
All  too  faithful  I  have  been 
In  the  homage  paid  to  you 
By  the  fond  deluded  crew 
Owning  your  sway  with  delight 
Half  the  muddled,  maudlin  night ; 
Hardly  ere  the  gray  dawn  came 
Creeping  home  to  hide  their  shame ; 
Steeped  in  you  from  crown  to  sole, 
Nicotine  and  Alcohol ! 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 
Me  no  more  you  can  cajole; 
At  the  last  I  broke  away 
Out  into  the  open  day ; 
Desp'rate  at  the  last  I  broke 

From  the  wine  fumes  and  the  smoke ; 
195 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

From  the  bowl  and  from  the  pipe 
I  escaped — and  time  was  ripe ! 
You're  no  more  my  king  and  queen, 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine ! 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine, 
Round  me  now  the  grass  is  green, 
O'er  my  head  the  sky  is  blue, 
Flecked  with  clouds  unknown  to  you, 
At  my  feet  the  brooklet  sings, 
Many  a  flower  before  me  springs, 
And  the  birds  in  yonder  wood 
Carol  for  my  happy  mood 
Songs  unheard  where  you  control, 
Nicotine  and  Alcohol ! 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 
Freed  is  my  rejoicing  soul; 
Heart  and  head  at  last  are  free, 
Perfect  peace  abides  with  me. 
In  my  liberated  brain 

Forming  now  is  many  a  strain ; 
196 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

And  the  first  that  I  shall  sing 
Bids  a  farewell  to  the  king, 
Long  farewell  to  King  and  Queen 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine ! 

(PER  CONTRA!) 

Alcohol  and  Nicotine, 

When  I  think  of  what  has  been, 

Of  the  frolics  I  have  had 

With  the  free  fun-loving  squad, 

There's  a  thought  comes  in  my  mind 

Maybe  I  have  been  unkind. 

When  these  bitter  words  I  wrote 

Maybe  I  too  much  forgot 

Hours  when  you  made  glad  my  soul, 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol ! 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 

I  have  looked  upon  the  bowl, 

Felt  like  anything  but  war 

At  a  proffer'd  good  cigar ; 

Where  went  round  the  song  and  jest 

Once  I  ranked  among  the  best ; 

197 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

While  to  all  the  pleasure  there 
You  contributed  your  share ; 
Why  on  you  now  vent  my  spleen, 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine? 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine, 
Ne'er  have  I  a  croaker  been ; 
Now,  though  I  must  stay  at  home, 
Shun  the  sparkle  and  the  foam, 
Why  should  I  presume  to  say 
Better  men  sha'n't  have  their  day, 
Mindless  of  unnumber'd  joys 
I  have  shared  among  the  boys 
When  a  stave  to  you  they'd  troll, 
Nicotine  and  Alcohol? 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 

Soon  for  me  the  bells  will  toll ; 

Let  them  clang !  I've  had  my  time, 

I  was  living  in  my  prime  ! 

Let  the  boys  still  have  their  sport, 

Make  them  welcome  at  your  court ; 
198 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

Shame  on  me  if  I  be  jealous 
Of  the  rosy,  royst'ring  fellows, 
Fit  for  king  and  fit  for  queen, 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine ! 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine, 
In  the  spring  the  grass  is  green, 
In  his  prime  a  man  is  bold, 
But  when  feeble  grown  and  old 
Then  he  thinks  that  fun  and  mirth 
Have  no  place  upon  the  earth ; 
Not  with  such  shall  I  be  joined ! 
I  am  going  to  bear  in  mind 
Hours  you  freed  for  me  from  dole 
Nicotine  and  Alcohol ! 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 

Mother  Earth's  a  perverse  soul, 

Nags  and  plagues  her  creature  man 

Seemingly  just  all  she  can ; 

If  her  torturing  to  escape 

He'll  take  trouble  by  the  nape, 
199 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

Choke  and  squeeze  him  till  he's  quaffed 
Meekly  one  peace-pledging  draught, 
I'll  not  blame,  nor  you,  I  ween, 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine ; 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine, 

Some  there  are  that  bar  you  clean, 

Close  the  door  and  firmly  lock  it 

Fearful  you  might  hurt  their  pocket. 

Prudent,  lest  someone  should  "  holler," 

"  Ho !   you're  going  to  lose  a  dollar !" 

Or  some  wagging  tongue  might  tell 

They  are  not  respectable ! 

Names  of  such  would  blot  your  scroll, 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol ! 

Nicotine  and  Alcohol, 
Not  with  these  shall  I  enroll ; 
Let  the  lean,  mechanic  lubbers 
And  the  anxious  money-grubbers 
Delve  and  dig  and  still  connive — 

Scarce  they  know  they  are  alive ! 
200 


Alcohol  and  Nicotine 

Caring  naught  for  such  delights, 
Rather  I'll  recall  the  nights 
When  you  reigned  as  King  and  Queen, 
Alcohol  and  Nicotine ! 


201 


SHIPWRECKED    MOTHER 

THE  sea  was  smooth,  the  wind  was  fair, 

The  steamship  plowed  along, 
And  from  her  deck  in  ocean's  air 

Rose  up  the  voice  of  song ; 
Their  willing  cheeks  the  sea-breeze  fanned, 

New  life  within  them  sprang ; 
To-morrow's  dawn  would  show  the  land, 

And  so  they  laughed  and  sang. 

Behind  them  far  were  all  their  cares, 

New  sights  would  greet  their  eyes, 
And  fairer  fields  would  soon  be  theirs 

'Neath  less  relentless  skies ; 
So  now,  while  sped  the  vessel  on, 

The  song  and  speech  did  flow, 
And  all  were  happy  there  save  one — 

One  bent  in  deepest  woe. 

Ah !  well  from  her  the  tears  may  shower, 

Well  may  she  sorely  weep, 
And  inly  rue  the  luckless  hour 

She  trusted  to  the  deep ! 
202 


Shipwrecked  Mother 

Her  baby  boy,  for  whom,  whence  once 
The  severing  sea  was  crossed, 

His  waiting  father's  heart  would  dance, 
Was  lost,  forever  lost ! 


Too  strong  for  him  the  chill  sea-mist, 

He  pined  from  day  to  day, 
And  ere  his  careful  mother  wist, 

Her  boy  had  passed  away ; 
And  when  death  pinched  his  little  charms, 

And  still  she  would  him  save, 
They  tore  him  from  her  desp'rate  arms 

And  sank  him  in  the  wave. 

Ah !  on  the  land  had  he  but  died, 
In  some  green  nook  been  laid, 

Where  oft  at  eve  she  might  have  hied, 
And  in  the  stillness  prayed ; 

Some  little  fragrant  flower  have  set 
His  tiny  grave  upon, 

She  might  have  deemed  her  darling  yet 

Not  altogether  gone : — 
203 


Shipwrecked  Mother 

But  in  that  rude  abyss  to  cast 

Her  babe,  though  void  of  breath, 
Where  only  shrilled  the  cold  sea-blast- 

Ah,  that  was  more  than  death ; 
A  thousand  fathoms  down  to  sleep 

The  dim  green  floods  below, 
Perchance  in  ocean's  middle  deep 

To  waver  to  and  fro ! 

So  now,  while  all  around  are  glad, 

And  jest  in  merry  strain, 
This  mother  sits  apart  full  sad 

And  keeps  her  with  her  pain ; 
Nor  cries  she  hears,  nor  vain  alarms, 

Her  babe  is  her  before, 
Almost  she  feels  him  in  her  arms, 

And  kisses  him  once  more. 


Whence  comes  that  cannon's  warning  boom, 
Whence  that  far-reaching  cry, 

Why  flare  these  rockets  through  the  gloom, 
Athwart  the  murky  sky? 
204 


Shipwrecked  Mother 

Alas  !   on  rocks  the  ship  hath  sped, 

She  founders  even  now, 
And  death,  with  eager  arms  outspread, 

Bends  forward  o'er  the  prow ! 


Ah !  where  are  now  those  singers  all  ? 

See  yon  disorder'd  crew, 
From  side  to  side  they  rush  and  fall, 

Nor  know  they  what  they  do ; 
The  thickening  spray  is  o'er  them  driven, 

Their  hour  of  doom  hath  come, 
And  some  are  screaming  loud  to  heaven 

And  some  are  swooned  and  dumb. 

Reared  up  his  head  th'  awak'ning  deep, 

As  if  to  list  the  noise, 
Then  on  he  plunged  with  foamy  sweep, 

And  raised  his  mighty  voice ; 
And  wilder  yet  on  board  they  call, 

As  fiercer  shocks  the  wave ; 
And  only  one  among  them  all 

Seeks  not  herself  to  save. 
205 


Shipwrecked  Mother 

Ah !  why  should  she  the  rude  sea  fear, 

Her  he  can  scarce  destroy, 
This  mother's  life  is  hardly  here, 

But  yonder,  with  her  boy ; 
The  billowing  waves  that  mount  the  skies, 

Hoarse  howling  for  their  prey, 
They  but  behold  her  shut  her  eyes, 

Her  thoughts  are  far  away. 

And  when  the  final  moment  comes, 

And  in  one  shriek  it  ends, 
One  shriek  that  all  the  horror  sums 

As  down  the  ship  descends ; 
Full  calm,  while  all  around  her  rose 

The  dire  confusion  wild, 
This  mother  clasps  her  hands  and  goes 

Content,  to  meet  her  child  ! 


206 


THE    LITTLE    PENNY 

On  sending  to  a  friend  an  engraving  of  the  picture  "  Looking  for  an 
Investment — What  shall  I  buy  ?"  Two  blue-bonneted  Scotch  lads,  bound 
schoolward,  are  standing  at  a  confectioner's  window,  the  younger  in 
tently  gazing  at  the  toys  and  candies  within,  the  eager  look  in  his  eye 
betraying  the  "  burning  penny"  in  his  pocket:  while  the  other  regards 
him  indulgently  and  reminds  him  it  is  time  to  be  going. 

OH  !  homespun,  nail-shod  Scottish  lad, 

Bound  schoolward  in  the  morning, 
Enchanted  by  the  siren  sweets 

Those  homely  shelves  adorning ; 
With  eager  face  against  the  glass, 

And  wistful  eye  distended, 
One  burning  penny  in  your  hand, 

A  score  of  ways  to  spend  it ! 


Oh!   wistful,  wealth-tormented  lad, 

I  will  not  slight  your  trouble, 
Nor  on  the  stream  of  boyish  life 

Esteem  it  but  a  bubble ; 
207 


The  Little  Penny 

Myself  I  find  depicted  here ! 

In  every  line  and  letter, 
As  oft  I've  stood,  a  boy  like  you, 

And  now — what  am  I  better  ? 


An  older  boy,  with  cares  beset 

And  torturing  questions  many, 
The  muckle  "  fairing"  *  still  to  buy, 

And  still  the  little  penny ; 
With  nose  yet  pressed  against  the  pane 

This  solemn  truth  I  find  O, 
That  as  one's  pile  of  pennies  grows, 

Grows  bigger,  too,  the  window ! 


Alas  !  the  wares  that  now-a-days 

I  would  most  gladly  purchase 
I  cannot  find  on  any  shelf, 

In  all  my  weary  marches ; 

*  Fairing :  What  one  buys  or  what  is  presented  to  one  at  a  fair- 
usually  something  in  the  confectionery  line.  Used  figuratively  in  Tarn 
O'Shanter  : — "  Ah,  Tarn  ;  ah.  Tarn,  thou'lt  get  thy  fairing'." 

208 


The  Little  Penny 

And  if  I  found  them — stinging  thought ! 

I  were  but  a  pretender ; 
My  little  hoard  of  pennies  poor 

Not  now  were  "  legal  tender !" 


But  had  I  known  while  from  the  East 

The  morning  sun  yet  slanted, 
To  choose  from  all  the  wild'ring  store 

The  only  thing  I  wanted, 
I  should  not  linger,  mournful  now, 

My  Fair-day  swiftly  closing, 
To  find  that  all  I  should  have  bought 

Was  sold  while  I  was  dozing ! 

Oh !  had  my  heart  been  only  set 

With  firm  resolve  upon  it, 
And  had  I  loved  it  utterly 

I  surely  should  have  won  it ; 
But  now  'tis  gone : — Oh  !  as  it  passed 

It  seemed  so  rarely  bonnie ! 
'Tis  gone — and  were  it  here,  not  now 

Have  I  the  current  money ! 

14  209 


The  Little  Penny 

For  you,  who  at  the  window  stand, 

Not  yet  may  thoughts  come  o'er  you 
How  small  the  copper  in  your  hand, 

What  store  of  sweets  before  you ; 
Far  be  such  thoughts  from  that  young  head- 

My  warmest  blessings  on  it, 
And  on  its  tangled,  towsy  hair, 

And  on  its  broad  blue  bonnet ! — 


But  when  to  Life's  full  fair  you  come, 

With  strong  young  step  and  steady, 
Then  may  you  know  just  what  you  want, 

And  have  your  pennies  ready ; 
And  when  your  bargaining  is  done, 

Oh !  may  it  when  you've  bought  it 
Give  to  you  all  the  joy  you  deemed 

It  would,  before  you  sought  it ! 

It  will  not,  cannot, — vain  that  wish ; 

But  ah !  you  doomed  young  rover, 
You'll  reach  betimes  those  waters  wide — 

I'll  wish  you  safely  over; 
210 


The  Little  Penny 

Then  will  you  find,  as  numbed  you  stand 
Mid  faded  flowers  and  fading, 

The  blood  has  ta'en  a  lasting  chill 
The  time  that  you  were  wading. 

Oh !  homespun,  nail-shod  Scottish  lad, 

Not  wholly  with  contentment 
Or  happy  thoughts  can  I  behold 

Your  "  counterfeit  presentment ;" 
It  brings  a  world  of  memories  back, 

And  musing  o'er  the  saddest 
I  only  laugh ;  but  I  could  cry 

While  brooding  o'er  the  gladdest. 

In  mists  from  those  long-vanished  days 

All  dimly  framed,  I  send  you 
To  one  who,  for  their  sake  and  mine, 

Will  cherish  and  defend  you ; 
And  when  he  eyes  you  on  his  wall 

Some  favor'd  spot  adorning, 
May  pleasant  thoughts  of  me  be  his 

On  many  a  Christmas  morning ! 


211 


PRIVATE    DRAWER 

I  HAVE  a  little  private  drawer  at  home 

Wherein  I  keep  some  foolish  things  of  mine ; 

Old  rhymes  and  letters  writ  while  yet  some  foam 
Was  on  the  cup  that  now  with  sullen  brine 

Is  oftenest  filled :  when  to  that  drawer  I  come 
My  eyes  sometimes  grow  misty  and  I  pine 

For  that  sweet  morning-land  and  its  soft  airs 

Now  sunk  so  far  behind  dark  seas  of  cares. 


MARY 

THE  smile  that  breaks  on  Mary's  lips 

Is  like  the  wave  that  woos  the  shore, 
When  shadows  wait  on  idle  ships, 

And  roses  deck  the  fisher's  door ; 
The  snow-white  shells  whereon  it  curls, 

These  are  her  teeth,  but  vain  to  seek 
In  ocean's  rarest  caves  for  pearls 

To  match  the  tint  of  Mary's  cheek. 


The  light  that  wells  in  Mary's  eye 

Is  like  the  flow  of  some  pure  spring 
That,  with  no  glimpse  of  Heaven's  blue  sky, 

In  deep  wood-shades  unseen  did  sing ; 
Till  once  in  wayward  April's  wane, 

While  venturous  flowers  still  f  ear'd  to  blow, 
A  storm  of  wind  and  pelting  rain 

Rock'd  all  the  forest  to  and  fro. 

213 


Mary 

And  when  it  passed,  and  warm  and  bright 

Again  the  sun  the  woods  shone  o'er, 
The  tangled  bows  that  screen'd  his  light 

From  that  pure  fount  were  seen  no  more ; 
And  all  its  lucid  depths  were  stirred, 

Its  bubbling  voice  found  new  employ ; 
And  in  far  sylvan  nooks  was  heard 

Its  song  of  gratitude  and  joy. 

So  when  in  Mary's  eyes  I  looked 

When  mine  with  love  were  brighter  grown, 
His  burning  glance  ne'er  having  brooked, 

No  answer  sparkled  in  her  own ; 
But  when,  with  stormful  sighs  and  tears, 

My  secret  from  my  soul  was  riven, 
Ah,  then !  as  passed  her  shadowy  fears, 

She  to  me  turned  the  light  of  Heaven. 


2H 


LOVE'S    EXTRAVAGANCE 

THAT  I'll  not  see  thee,  love,  to-night, 
Nor  yet  until  the  far  to-morrow 

Hath  faded  into  dim  twilight, 

Doth  fill  my  foolish  heart  with  sorrow. 

When  by  thy  side,  and  thy  low  voice 
Falls  sweetly  on  my  charmed  ear, 

The  longest  hour  too  swiftly  flies, 
The  parting  time  is  aye  too  near. 

But  when  from  thee  I  loathly  go, 
With  joy  and  sadness  hand  in  hand, 

The  lingering  minutes  seem  to  flow, 

As  through  the  glass  the  slow,  dull  sand. 

Yet  are  they  not  void  of  deep  bliss ; — 
From  the  long  hours  I  steal  their  pain 

With  thinking  on  thy  last  fond  kiss, 
The  time  when  we  shall  meet  again. 


215 


Love's  Extravagance 

Oh !  if  no  sun  made  glad  the  day, 
And  pale,  meek  Dian  ceased  to  reign  ; 

If  vanished  the  broad,  milky  way, 

And  all  the  twinkling,  starry  train — 

I  would  not  ask  for  sun  or  moon ; 

I  would  not  mourn  th'  extinguished  stars 
Thine  eyes  to  me  would  bring  the  boon 

Of  light,  behind  a  dungeon's  bars ! 

If  the  dumb  woods  gave  out  no  sign, — 
If  when  the  voice  of  Summer  spoke, 

No  cone  hung  high  on  the  tall  pine 
And  not  an  acorn  on  the  oak  ; — 

I  would  not  ask  for  songs  or  buds ; 

The  first  thy  voice  is  everywhere ; 
And  for  the  foliage  of  the  woods, 

I'd  take  the  wreaths  of  thy  brown  hair. 

The  flow'riest  plain  that  lures  the  fawn 

Were  drear  and  cold,  wert  thou  away ; 
The  stoniest  hill — bleak  at  bright  dawn — 

With  thee,  were  robed  in  bloom  for  aye ! 
216 


BOB    O'  LINCOLN 

BOB  o'  LINCOLN  !  Bob  o'  Lincoln ! 

Ah !  sweet  Robin,  is  it  you  ? 
Well  may  you  sing,  Bob  o'  Lincoln, 

Nothing  else  you  have  to  do ! 
Sing  away :  I'm  listening,  Robin, 

Listening  long  and  envying  you — 
I  could  sing  too,  Bob  o'  Lincoln, 

Had  I  nothing  else  to  do ! 


Bob  o'  Lincoln !  Bob  o'  Lincoln ! 

Trill  away  till  all  grows  blue, 
Oh  how  fine  you  are,  Sir  Robin, 

None,  you  think,  can  sing  like  you  ! 
None,  you  think,  could  e'er  defeat  you, 

But  your  pride  you  yet  may  rue ; 
Robin,  Robin,  I  could  beat  you, 

Had  I  nothing  else  to  do  ! 

217 


Bob  o'  Lincoln 

Could  you  sing  so  if  they  caught  you, 
Took  you  from  your  skies  so  blue, 

And  to  turn  a  cage-wheel  taught  you, 
Just  for  something  else  to  do? 

Oh,  you're  happy  !  but  I'm  thinking, 
Robin,  I  were  happy  too — 

Could  I  sing  like  Bob  o'  Lincoln, 

And  have  nothing  else  to  do  ! 


218 


QUEEN    ANN 

OH,  take  me  to  the  king !  she  cried, 
When  morning  bells  did  ring ; 

And  still  at  peaceful  eventide : 
Oh,  let  me  see  the  king ! 

And  often  in  the  midnight  sky 
The  owl,  on  balanced  wing, 

Would  marvel  o'er  that  weary  cry : 
Could  I  but  see  the  king ! 

Before  her  jailer,  day  by  day, 
She  still  herself  would  fling : 

Oh,  take  your  loathsome  crusts  away, 
But  bring  me  to  the  king ! 

And  when  the  lout  was  gone  thereout, 

And  far  his  steps  did  ring, 
His  careless  ear  behind  could  hear : 

Oh,  I  will  see  the  king ! 
219 


Queen  Ann 

King  Halbert  knew  the  truth  at  last ; — 

One  flash,  and  all  was  seen ; 
Flush-cheeked,  his  hands  to  Heaven  he  cast : 

My  true,  my  slandered  queen  ! 

Through  corridors,  by  massy  bars, 

Right  eagerly  he  sprang, 
While  drowsing  slaves  caught  at  their  staves, 

And  wondered  at  the  clang. 

Wide  open,  at  his  wild  commands, 

Flew  door  and  bristling  gate; 
Full  soon  at  Ann's  low  cell  he  stands, — 

Full  soon ; — but  ah,  too  late ! 

Too  late  his  startled  jailers  spring, 
The  ponderous  door  back  swings  : 

Poor  Ann  at  last  has  seen  the  king — 
Oh  Ann,  the  King  of  Kings ! 


LORD    THORWALD 

LORD  THORWALD'S  castle-towers  rose  high 

Above  a  wood  of  lofty  pines 
That  stretched  beneath  a  northern  sky, 

Where  sloes  were  all  the  peasant's  vines. 

Behind  the  towers,  and  fathoms  deep 

Down  in  a  rocky-walled  ravine, 
A  little  brook  did  brawl  or  sleep, 

In  summer  when  the  cones  were  green ; 

But  when  the  winter  rains  and  thaws 

Made  Thorwald's  henchmen  keep  their  halls, 

Swollen  almost  to  its  channel's  jaws, 
It  thundered  past  the  castle-walls, 

And  roared  along  its  narrow  bed 
At  midnight,  till  the  wolf  did  howl, 

And  snoring  Thorwald  turn'd  his  head 

And  mutter'd,  "  Christ,  the  night  is  foul !" 

221 


Lord  Thorwald 

The  king  was  powerless  in  the  land, 
There  was  no  law  for  rich  or  poor ; 

He  ruled  who  had  the  strong  right  hand, 
The  weak  had  only  to  endure. 

Here  long  was  Thorwald's  biding-place, 
His  fathers  here  before  him  dwelt : 

But  none,  save  he,  of  all  his  race, 

But  had  a  heart  could  sometimes  melt. 

His  giant  form,  his  swollen  face, 

Were  as  a  cloud  upon  the  land ; 
The  peasants  hid,  and  pray'd  for  grace, 

When  Thorwald  passed  with  his  fierce  band. 

One  morn  when  day  was  newly  dawned, 
And  scarce  the  wolf  had  sought  his  lair : — 

'Twas  when  late  Autumn  swiftly  waned, 
And  leaves  were  whirling  in  the  air : — 

Lord  Thorwald  crossed  his  slimy  moat ; 

The  sleepy  warder  rubbed  his  eyes, 
And  marked  the  helm  and  scaly  coat, 

As  tokens  of  a  dark  surprise. 
222 


Lord  Thorwald 

With  twenty  chosen  men  he  went, 
His  followers  still  at  brawl  or  bowl, 

So  long  to  his  coarse  bidding  bent, 
They  had  his  very  tone  and  scowl. 

The  wind  was  gusty ;  with  a  bound 
Against  the  groaning  pines  it  beat, 

Then  lull'd  and  they  could  hear  no  sound 
Save  their  sharp-clicking  horses  feet, 

Lord  Thorwald  rode,  his  men  did  follow, 
Far  distant  was  the  expected  fray, 

And  when  the  wrind  blew  loud  and  hollow, 
He  mumbling  cursed  the  doubtful  day. 

The  forest's  gloom  well-nigh  was  passed, 
He  saw  below  the  open  realm, 

And  through  the  thinning  trees  was  cast 
A  livelier  light  upon  his  helm. 

When,  as  he  issued  from  the  wood, 

He  spied,  just  on  the  road's  steep  brink, 
A  little  bubbling  spring,  and  stood 

To  give  his  snorting  steed  to  drink. 
293 


Lord  Thorwald 

And  while  the  war-horse  shook  his  frame, 
And  from  his  nostril  tossed  the  foam, 

Along  a  twining  by-path  came 

A  maiden  from  her  woodland  home, 

To  fill  her  pitcher  at  this  spring, 

To  her  the  dearest  in  the  land, 
And  as  she  came  she  still  did  sing, 

And  swung  the  pitcher  in  her  hand. 

But  when  she  heard  the  full-blown  breath 
Of  Thorwald's  steed  as  deep  he  drank, 

Her  startled  face  grew  pale  as  death, 
Her  pitcher  rolled  adown  the  bank. 

And  when  huge  Thorwald,  helm'd  and  mailed, 

She  saw  so  near,  her  little  heart 
As  though  a  knife  had  cleft  it,  failed, 

And  all  her  strength  did  quick  depart. 

And  trembling  on  the  bank  she  stood, 

Nor  dared  to  look  or  speak  or  fly ; 
While  Thorwald  her  young  beauty  viewed, 

And  on  her  gazed  with  insolent  eye 
224 


Lord  Thorwald 

"  A  pretty  wench,  by  Christ ;"  he  said, 
"  As  ever  rings  and  brooches  bought !" 

— And  then  his  glances  backward  strayed 
As  of  his  castle  he  had  thought. 

Then :  "  Fill  thy  pitcher,  wench,"  he  said, 
"  Thou  needst  not  so  with  terror  brim ! 

Lord  Thorwald  always  loved  a  maid, 

—But,  Christ !  it's  little  they  love  him." 

This  last  in  lower  tone  he  spoke, 
And  as  he  spoke  he  loudly  laughed, 

Then  cried :  "  Thy  pitcher  is  not  broke : 
Fill  up  !  my  horse  his  fill  has  quaffed." 

No  word  the  trembling  maid  replied ; 

But  thinking  of  her  lowly  home 
Among  the  woods,  she  to  the  tide 

With  downcast  eyes  did  hurrying  come. 

Her  pitcher  filled,  she'd  bear  it  on, 

Nor  Thorwald's  following  gaze  would  shun ; 
But,  out  of  sight,  she'd  cast  it  down, 

And  like  a  f  righten'd  deer  would  run ! 
15  225 


Lord  Thorwald 

Thus  thought  the  little  maid ;  but  ah ! 

No  more  through  those  dark  woods  shall  ring 
Her  voice  at  morn,  as  pleased  she  saw 

Her  own  bright  image  in  the  spring. 

For  as  she  stooped  at  Thorwald's  feet, 
His  eye  with  kindling  hell-fire  glowed, 

He  swayed  a  moment  in  his  seat, 

Then  quickly  from  the  saddle  bowed ; 

And  sudden,  even  ere  she  could  scream, 
For  that  huge  form,  that  from  the  wave 

Did  seem  to  rise,  as  in  a  dream 

Gaunt  spectres  come,  while  night  winds  rave, 

His  shoulder  pressed  on  her  pure  cheek, 
His  brawny  arm  was  round  her  waist ; 

And  when  she  gave  forth  shriek  on  shriek, 
His  hand  upon  her  mouth  he  placed. 

With :  "  Ho !  why  'tis  a  noisy  wench ! 

Thou  dost  but  mar  thy  pretty  face ;" 
—But  still  she  screamed,  and  strove  to  wrench, 
Her  struggling  form  from  his  embrace. 


Lord  Thorwald 

But  Thorwald  only  pooh'd,  and  shook 
Her  like  a  toy  in  his  strong  grasp ; 

Till  with  one  last  despairing  look, 
She  in  a  swoon  her  hands  did  clasp. 

Then  Thorwald  spoke : — by  this  his  men 
Were  gathered  round  upon  the  road, 

Nor  marveled  they  but  with  slack  rein, 
Coolly  their  chafing  steeds  bestrode. 

For  since  they  owned  this  leader's  thrall 
No  pity  could  their  hearts  invade ; 

Yet  there  was  one  among  them  all, 
Did  look  with  sorrow  on  the  maid. 

Gilbert  his  name,  and  his  thick  beard 
Was  lightly  tinged  with  coming  gray : 

His  father's  household  God  had  feared ; 
But  he  in  youth  had  gone  astray — 

And  long  in  Evil's  path  had  trod ; 

But  now,  when  age  was  creeping  on, 
In  silent  hours  with  him  abode 

Dim  visions  of  that  father  gone. 

227 


Lord  Thorwald 

Till  even  the  bowl  could  not  keep  down 
The  hot  remorse  that  surged  within, 

And  he  would  swear  no  more  to  drown 
His  soul  in  that  dark  life  of  sin. 

And  Gilbert,  in  his  innocent  days, 

Had  known  this  maiden's  father ;   they 

Had  once  nigh  set  the  woods  ablaze, 
In  their  adventurous  boyish  play. 

And  he  had  seen  the  maid  before, 
And  knew  her  for  the  only  child 

Of  his  old  playmate,  and  it  sore 

Had  grieved  him  for  his  life  defiled. 

And  when  Lord  Thorwald  turned  and  said : 
"  Thou,  Gilbert,  take  this  dainty  wench, 

And  see  her  in  my  castle  laid," 

His  swarthy  cheek  did  visibly  blench. 

And  as  he  took  the  fainted  form, 

So  slow,  so  strangely,  did  he  move, 
That  Thorwald  stared — then  with  a  storm 

Of  jeers,  roared :  "  Why  the  man's  in  lovj 
228 


Lord  Thorwald 

With  this  same  wench,  ho  ho !  ho  ho ! 

Sure  these  must  needs  be  love's  own  bands 
He  holds  her  in, — the  wind  might  blow 

Her  from  his  trembling,  fumbling  hands. 

"  Begone,  thou  white-faced  stammering  fool, 
There  lies  the  road,  fond  younker,  see ! 

And  for  a  time  thine  ardor  cool, — 
She  shall  be  sweetheart  first  to  me." 

But  Thorwald's  jeers  brought  with  a  bound 
The  red  blood  back  to  Gilbert's  cheek, 

He  wheeled  his  steed  like  lightning  round, 
And  with  a  flashing  eye  did  speak : 

"  I  do  not  love  this  maid,  my  lord, 
Nor  thought  have  I  to  make  her  wife ; 

But  not  by  you  shall  she  be  marred, 
And  that  I'll  answer  with  my  life, 

"  And  this  my  sword ;"  and  swift  he  drew ; 

But  Thorwald  curled  his  lip  in  scorn, 
And  then  he  stormed,  with  deepening  hue, 

"  Begone !   or  else  I'll  have  thee  torn 
229 


Lord  Thorwald 

"  In  pieces,  fool !  begone,  I  say  !" 

But  Gilbert  firmer  grasped  his  sword, 

Raised  his  right  arm  for  freer  play, 
And  dashed  upon  his  wrathful  lord. 

And  struck  with  all  his  might,  but  vain ! 

The  tempered  mail  was  hardly  bruised ; 
And  quick,  ere  he  could  strike  again, 

Thorwald's  broad  blade  was  interposed. 

A  moment  passed  in  play  of  swords ; 

Soon  Gilbert's  weapon  from  him  flew ; 
Then  his  tough  mail  and  sinewy  cords, 

Thorwald's  strong  steel  drove  deeply  through. 

Nor  Gilbert's  life  alone,  alas ! 

He  cleft  with  that  resistless  blow ; 
But  all  the  dark  and  tangling  mass 

Of  hair,  that  loosely  streamed  below, 

The  bloody  blade  did  shear  in  twain  ; 

And  when  the  frightened  steed  did  bound, 
Set  free  from  the  controlling  rein, 

Two  corpses  rolled  upon  the  ground. 
230 


Lord  Thorwald 

Lord  Thorwald  rode,  his  men  did  follow, 
They  left  behind  the  lifeless  clay ; 

No  more  the  fitful  wind  blew  hollow, 
But  all  the  sky  was  changed  to  gray. 

And  a  strange  stillness  filled  the  air ; 

And  far  off  kine  were  heard  to  low ; 
And  dying  Autumn  promised  fair 

To  make  his  winding-sheet  of  snow. 

But  who  shall  tell  the  winter's  bound 
That  on  that  woodland  home  did  fall, 

When  in  their  startled  search  they  found 
Their  spring  so  far  beyond  their  call ! 

Their  flow'ry  spring,  their  summer  too, 
The  Heaven  of  their  declining  years : 

She  like  a  sun  had  sipped  the  dew 
Of  care  away,  and  dried  their  tears. 

Her  song  stole  through  the  forest  glade ; 

Her  father  at  his  toil  did  start ; 
Then  as  a  tear  dropped  on  his  spade, 

He  blessed  her  in  his  inmost  heart. 
231 


Lord  Thorwald 

Lord  Thorwald  rode,  and  scarce  with  wrath 
His  rocky  face  had  ceased  to  glow, 

Ere  he  had  reached  the  broader  path 
Where  he  had  hoped  to  find  his  foe. 

This  way  he  looked,  and  that,  and  keen 

On  either  side  he  sent  his  eye ; 
But  naught  upon  the  road  was  seen, 

Nor  fresh  hoof-print  could  he  descry. 

His  men  came  up,  hot  at  his  side, 

With  visors  down,  they  took  their  way, 

And  still  the  farther  they  did  ride, 

More  threatening  grew  the  darksome  day. 

Lord  Thorwald  rode,  with  curse  and  frown ; 

But  when  a  distant  convent  bell 
Sent  o'er  far  fields  the  stroke  of  noon, 

And  small  crisp  snow-flakes  lightly  fell, 

He  wheeled  his  willing  steed  around, 
Struck  with  his  armed  heel  a  blow ; 
"  Home,  home !"  he  cried,  and  with  a  bound 

Dashed  off  into  the  thickening  snow. 
232 


Lord  Thorwald 

Lord  Thorwald  rode,  his  men  did  follow, 
They  could  not  with  their  leader  keep, 

His  stronger  steed  flew  like  a  swallow, 
The  biting  steel  had  pierced  so  deep. 

They  scoured  along,  a  little  breeze 

Blew  from  them  as  they  swiftly  passed ; 

Scarce  could  they  see  the  wayside  trees, 
The  snow  came  down  so  thick  and  fast. 

The  dim  day  waned,  the  night  came  on, 
Long  ere  their  castle-towers  were  nigh ; 

Their  foaming  steeds  were  faint  and  blown, 
Nor  longer  held  their  heads  on  high. 

And  when  the  darkness  came,  the  wind 
That  slept  since  morn,  again  did  rise ; 

On  either  hand,  before,  behind, 

It  filled  the  land  with  dreary  cries, 

And  all  the  air  with  whirling  snow, 
And  level  heaped  each  hollow  den ; 

Lord  Thorwald's  heart  foreboded  so, 
He  waited  for  his  panting  men. 


Lord  Thorwald 

They  toiled  along,  the  wood  was  gained 
Where  Thorwald  Gilbert's  blood  did  spill : 

When  all  at  once,  though  all  unreined, 

With  one  wild  snort,  their  steeds  stood  still. 

And  awful  terror,  dim-divined, 

So  made  each  rider's  blood  to  start, 

That  in  the  pausing  of  the  wind 

You  might  have  heard  his  thumping  heart. 

And  lo !  when  to  their  leader's  place 

They  turned,  as  still  they  turned,  for  cheer, 

A  ghastly  light  was  on  his  face, 

His  lips  were  parted  wide  with  fear ! 

A  pale  thin  light,  unearthly  wan, 

Faint  on  Lord  Thorwald's  face  it  shone ; 

It  was  not  like  the  light  of  dawn, 
Nor  any  light  of  sun  or  moon. 

A  space  they  gazed  without  a  sound ; 

— With  trebled  strength  came  back  the  blast ; 
The  woods  like  thunder  roared  around, 

And  trees  in  scores  were  headlong  cast. 


Lord  Thorwald 

But  far  above  the  groaning  woods, 
While  yet  the  blast  its  loudest  blew, 

Above  them,  in  the  inky  clouds, 
One  yell  of  agony  they  knew. 

And  when  the  wind  sank,  and  grew  sad, 
And  fearful  glances  round  were  thrown, 

Lo !  Thorwald's  steed  no  rider  had, 
But  in  their  midst  stood  all  alone ! 

They  moved  away,  the  storm  died  down, 
The  moon  came  out  with  face  of  peace, 

She  gleamed  their  castle-walls  upon, 

The  sight  from  far  their  eyes  did  please. 

But  queen  of  night,  or  king  of  day, 
No  light  their  leader  could  restore, 

Save  when  in  swooning  dreams  they  lay, 
Lord  Thorwald  they  beheld  no  more. 


235 


TRANSLATIONS 
THE    BROOKLET 

(From  Goethe) 

"  THOU  brooklet,  silver  bright  and  clear, 
Forever  hastening  onward  there, 
Upon  thy  banks,  I  ponder  slow, 
Whence  art  thou  come,  whereto  dost  go?" 

"  I  come  from  shady  rocks  among, 
By  flower  and  moss  I  glide  along, 
And  on  my  bosom  ever  lies 
The  image  of  the  friendly  skies. 

"  Therefore  my  thoughts  are  light  as  air, 
Forth  am  I  driven,  I  know  not  where ; 
But  He  that  called  me  from  the  stone, 
That  same  I  think  will  lead  me  on." 


236 


THE    SILESIAN    WEAVERS 

(From  Heine) 

No  tears  in  the  gloomy,  angry  eyes ; 
They  sit  at  the  loom  and  the  shuttle  flies : — 
Deutschland !  we're  weaving  a  shroud  for  you 
And  a  threefold  curse  weaving  into  it,  too — 
We're  weaving,  we're  weaving ! 

A  curse  for  the  God  unto  whom  we  told, 
Hungry,  our  wrongs  in  the  winter's  cold; 
Vainly  we  waited  and  hoped  and  prayed, 
Only  a  jest  and  a  sport  to  be  made — 
We're  weaving,  we're  weaving ! 

A  curse  for  the  king,  the  rich  man's  king, 
From  whom  no  kindness  our  woes  could  wring, 
Who  from  us  our  last  poor  groschen  squeezed 
x\nd  to  shoot  us  like  dogs  in  the  street  was  pleased- 
We're  weaving,  we're  weaving  ! 
237 


The  Silesian  Weavers 

A  curse  for  the  faithless  fatherland, 

Where  shame  and  disgrace  in  favor  stand, 

Where  the  flowers  are  nipped  ere  they  reach  their 

prime, 

And  the  worms  grow  fat  in  the  foulness  and  slime — 
We're  weaving,  we're  weaving ! 

The  looms  are  clanking,  the  shuttles  flit, 
By  day  and  by  night  at  our  task  we  sit ; — 
Deutschland !  we're  weaving  a  shroud  for  you 
And  a  threefold  curse  weaving  into  it,  too — 
We're  weaving,  we're  weaving ! 


238 


FREDERICK   REBEL'S  "  LAST   PRAYER." 

IN  vain,  Oh  Nature !  wouldst  thou  bend  thee 
Me  to  destroy,  who  am  thine  own ; 

Not  from  one  atom  canst  thou  rend  thee 
That  e'er  the  circling  worlds  have  known. 

Thou  shalt,  thou  must  again  awake  them, 
All  beings,  be  they  great  or  small, 

Who,  dying,  to  thy  breast  betake  them 
And  dream  they  are  no  more  at  all. 

Oh  Nature,  I  will  not  beseech  thee 
To  change  thy  course,  eternal,  fast ; 

I  know  no  prayer  of  mine  can  reach  thee, 
Thou  only  wake  me  at  the  last ! 

I  will  not  into  air  dissolve  me ; 

Through  that  long  sleep  my  drossy  clays 
Refined,  I'll  into  stone  resolve  me, 

And  lock  me  in  a  diamond's  blaze. 
239 


Frederick  Hebel's  "  Last  Prayer" 

If  in  some  crown  that  gem  be  beaming, 
Or  if,  where  lights  are  sparkling  round, 

On  some  white  bosom  it  be  gleaming ; — 
I'll  feel  it  not;  my  sleep  is  sound. 

In  thousand  hours  of  feast  and  dancing 
'Twill  shine,  all  gems  outdazzling  there ; 

But  none  of  all  that  mark  its  glancing 

Will  dream  whence  comes  that  sheen  so  rare. 

But  when  I  wake : — Its  secret  solving. 

I'll  to  the  wearer  this  disclose : 
A  mortal  once  in  tears  dissolving, 

Those  tears  into  a  diamond  froze ! 


240 


BABYLONIAN    SORROWS 

(From  Heine) 

DEATH  calls  for  me !    Oh  sweet,  believe  me, 
In  some  dim  wood  I  fain  would  leave  thee, 
In  some  pine  forest,  darkly  resting, 
Where  wolves  are  howling,  vultures  nesting, 
And  where  the  wild  sow  grunts  in  state, 
Her  yellow  consort's  frightful  mate ! 

Death  calls  for  me ;  it  were  still  better 
If  where  the  high  sea  knows  no  fetter 
I  left  thee,  my  darling  wife,  my  child, 
E'en  though  the  north  wind,  howling  wild, 
There  smote  the  deeps  and  from  their  recesses 
The  monsters  that  hide  in  the  dim  abysses, 
The  shark  and  the  crocodile,  past  believing 
Deadly,  with  open  jaws  came  heaving: 
Believe  me,  Matilda,  my  wife,  my  child, 
Not  so  dangerous  is  the  wild 
Tumultuous  sea  and  the  frowning  wood 

As  Paris,  our  present  habitude ! 
16  241 


Babylonian  Sorrows 

How  frightful  soe'er  the  vulture  and  wolf, 
And  monsters  that  tumble  in  channel  or  gulf, 
Ah !  creatures  than  these  more  dangerous  far 
In  Paris,  the  world's  fair  Capital,  are ! 
This  dancing,  this  glancing  Paris  so  nice, 
The  hell  of  the  angels,  the  devil's  paradise ; 
That  I  must  forsake  thee  here,  my  child, 
Oh !  the  thought  distracts  me,  it  drives  me  wild ! 

The  flies  are  swarming  around  my  bed 
With  a  mocking  buzz ;   upon  my  poor  head 
They  settle  themselves,  a  loathsome  lot ! 
And  some  the  faces  of  men  have  got, 
And  elephant-trunks  upon  some  I  see, 
Like  Ganesa,  the  Hindoo  deity : 
There's  a  hammering  sound   in   my   brain   some 
where — 

Ah !  some  one's  packing  a  trunk  in  there ; 
My  reason  is  going — that  sound  I  know — 
Alas,  before  I  myself  can  go ! 


WAY    OF    THE    WORLD 

(From  Heine) 

HE  that  hath  much,  in  his  full  lap 

Will  more  be  surely  shaken ; 
From  him  that  but  a  little  hath 

That  little  will  be  taken. 
But  get  thee  underground  with  speed 

If  nought  thou  hast  at  all ; 
They  only  have  the  right  to  live 

Who  have  the  wherewithal ! 


243 


DER  ABGEKUHLTE 

(From  Heine) 

("  I  iid  ist  man  todt  so  muss  man  lang 
Im  grabe  liegen.") 

HE  that  hath  dropped  from  life  away, 
A  long  time  in  the  grave  must  stay ; 
The  hour  that  ends  that  sleep  persistent, 
I  fear  that  hour  is  somewhat  distant. 

Yet,  ere  my  light  goes  out  for  aye, 
Before  my  heart  forgets  to  play, 
I'd  fain  once  more,  ere  death  me  summon, 
Be  happy  made  by  smiles  of  woman. 

And  she  I  choose  must  be  a  blonde, 
With  eyes  like  moonlight,  softly  fond ; 
The  warm  brunettes,  'tis  my  suspicion, 
Would  hardly  suit  with  my  condition ! 

The  young,  with  pulses  all  a-boil, 

Exult  in  passion's  wild  turmoil ; 

244 


Der  Abgekuhlte 

Their  souls  with  stormy  raptures  tearing ; 
One  hour  in  bliss,  the  next  despairing. 

No  longer  young,  and  not  quite  sound, 
I'd  like  before  I'm  under  ground, 
To  feel,  just  once  more,  love's  attraction, 
But  with  no  racket  or  distraction  ! 


245 


MARY    STUART'S    FAREWELL 

(From  Be  ranger) 

ADIEU,  oh  pleasant  Land  of  France  ! 

For  thee  I  shall  forever  sigh, 
Sweet  home  of  childhood's  happy  dance, 

Adieu  !  to  quit  thee  is  to  die. 

Dear  Land,  mine  own  become,  which  I 

Shall  see  no  more  as  fears  foretell, 
Receive  thy  Mary's  last  good-bye 

Oh  France !  and  keep  her  memory  well. 
The  sails  blow  out,  we  leave  the  land, 

And  all  unmoved  by  these  hot  tears 
Heaven  to  restore  me  to  thy  strand 

No  pitying  wave  in  storm  uprears — 
Adieu,  etc. 

When,  midst  the  people  of  my  Love 

The  lilies  on  my  brow  were  laid, 
My  royal  rank  they  did  approve 

Less  than  the  charms  my  youth  displayed 
246 


In  vain  does  sovereign  grandeur  wait 
'Mong  sober  Scotch  my  slow  advance; 

I  nothing  care  for  queenly  state 
If  I  may  not  be  Queen  in  France. 
Adieu,  etc. 


Love,  Glory,  and  the  Poet's  strain 

Have  made  too  sweet  my  happy  days, 
In  Caledonia's  bleak  domain 

How  sadly  changed  will  be  my  ways. 
An  awful  presage  made  me  scream 

To  think  that  such  a  thing  might  be ; 
I  thought  I  saw  in  a  wild  dream 

A  scaffold  raised  and  raised  for  me  !— 
Adieu,  etc. 


France,  in  the  midst  of  cares  and  fears 
The  Stuarts'  noble  Daughter  still, 
As  on  this  day  that  sees  her  tears, 

To  thee  shall  turn  in  all  her  ill. 

247 


Mary  Stuart's  Farewell 

But  Heaven !   our  ship  too  swiftly  sails, 
E'en  now  we  glide  'neath  other  skies, 

And  humid  night  with  dark  hand  veils 
Thy  fading  cliffs  from  my  dim  eyes — 
Adieu,  etc. 


949 


LA    BONNE    VIEILLE 

(From  Beranger) 

You  will  be  growing  old,  oh,  my  sweet  Love ! 

You  will  grow  old  and  I  shall  be  no  more ; 
Time  seems  to  me  he  does  so  quickly  move 

To  reckon  twice  the  days  I  lost  of  yore. 
Live  after  me !  but  let  the  long  years  look 

On  you  still  faithful  to  my  lessons  true, 
And  good  old  dame  snug  in  your  chimney  nook 

Croon  to  yourself  the  songs  of  him  you  knew. 

When  on  your  wrinkled  brow  sharp  eyes  shall  seek 
The  charms  that  thrilled  me  when  my  lays  I 
poured, 

When  young  lips  thirsting  for  the  tale  shall  speak, 
Oh !  tell  us  of  this  friend  you  so  adored ; 

Paint  of  my  love,  if  it  may  painting  brook 

The  warmth,  the  madness — the  suspicions  too, 

And  good  old  dame  snug  in  your  chimney  nook 

Croon  to  yourself  the  songs  of  him  you  knew. 
249 


La  Bonne  Vieille 

They'll  ask,  "  Could  he  for  love  make  young  hearts 
bleed?" 

You'll  answer  keen,  "  In  me  he  made  it  grow." 
"  Was  he  e'er  guilty  of  a  shameful  deed?" 

You'll  proudly  say  "  He  never  stooped  so  low." 
Say  that  his  fond  heart  melted  at  a  look — 

Still  softer  'neath  his  touch  his  lute's  tone  grew, 
And  good  old  dame  snug  in  your  chimney  nook 

Croon  to  yourself  the  songs  of  him  you  knew. 

You,  whom  I  taught  to  weep  for  suffering  France, 

Tell  to  the  sons  of  our  late-baffled  braves 
How  I  of  Glory  sang,  and  from  her  trance 

Called  Hope  to  soar  above  their  bloody  graves. 
Remind  them  of  the  dread  north  wind  that  shook 

Our  laurels  down  for  twenty  seasons  through, 
And  good  old  dame  snug  in  your  chimney  nook 

Croon  to  yourself  the  songs  of  him  you  knew. 

When  my  poor  fame,  sweetheart,  shall  fill  the  land 

And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  your  aged  hours, 
When,  as  the  springs  come  round,  your  trembling- 
hand 

My  picture  still  shall  decorate  with  flowers, 
250 


La  Bonne  Vieille 

Up  to  this  world  unseen  with  glad  eyes  look 
Where  we  forever  shall  our  Love  renew, 

And  good  old  dame  snug  in  your  chimney  nook 
Croon  to  yourself  the  songs  of  him  you  knew. 


251 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  708  661     4 


